


Blonsky AU

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous One-Shots [1]
Category: Lie to Me (TV), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: F/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which psychotic super-soldier Emil Blonsky catches the Hulk and meets a girl. But what becomes of your attack dog when he’s done the job he was created for and finished off the threat?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things. And there are a lot of bad words here.
> 
> 2\. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.
> 
> 3\. The pairing was inspired by Tim Roth (Cal) and Kelli Williams (Gillian) on Lie to Me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU!

The metal shed was meant for four soldiers; but Blonsky didn’t want to share with anyone, and no one wanted to share with _him_. So at the end of the day he was finally able to be alone, to relax and focus his thoughts, which was becoming increasingly difficult these days. A ‘possible side effect’ of the serum, Ross had told him—so far he could handle it, but what good would all his knowledge do if he couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand? He would just have to do whatever Ross told him to do, and maybe that was the plan all along.

Of course at the moment, he _wasn’t_ alone. He was pretty sure no one had seen him bring her back last night—no one had mentioned it, anyway, and that was the kind of thing that got mentioned. He didn’t know why he’d grabbed her, really, which didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should; he wasn’t in the habit of looting attack scenes, of either goods or people. Like some sort of Viking raider. But there was something about her, something he didn’t understand. After all these years he had learned to trust his instincts.

She watched him warily from the other bunk, curled up as tightly as possible. Ross had wanted immediate assessments of the battle, if you could call it that; Blonsky had barely had time to drop her off here before reporting to HQ. Breakfast wouldn’t start for another couple of hours—his increased metabolism meant he spent a lot more time thinking about food—so he stripped off his boots and uniform top and threw himself down on the unoccupied bunk. He wasn’t tired at all; but closing his eyes and breathing evenly helped to quiet his chaotic thoughts. He supposed it gave the impression that he was asleep, though.

“Don’t,” he warned the girl, who had slipped off her bunk and was sneaking towards the door. When he went out he could lock it from the outside and trap her; but being locked only from the inside at the moment, she could potentially escape if she could make it to the door.

She froze for a moment at his command—then decided to press her luck and make a run for it. Blonsky was on his feet in an instant, moving faster than humanly possible, and he grabbed her arm and slammed her up against the metal supply cabinet, blocking her with his body. He let her squirm for a minute, let her realize on her own that no matter where she shoved he wasn’t going to give way. It was kind of enjoyable. He felt like he was a wall pressing against her, an immobile object; even in his younger and more traditionally fit days he hadn’t been _this_ strong, _this_ unyielding. He let her struggle futilely until she finally gave up and just stood there, squeezed back against the supply cabinet to be as far away from him as possible.

He leaned in closer to her then, his fingers curling over the top of the cabinet that was about chin-high on him. All his senses had been considerably heightened and he sniffed near her throat, her ear, her hair. A little bestial, he supposed, but effective; her skin flushed and her heart rate shot up even more.

“Don’t try to run away,” he warned her. He didn’t know if she understood English—likely not—but he trusted that his meaning was clear. “Don’t even go outside. I’ll hunt you down, and tear you to pieces. I know your scent now,” he hissed right into her ear. Then abruptly he shoved away from her and lay down on his bunk again.

She stood still for a moment and he wondered idly if she really would try again anyway. But she seemed to realize how pointless—and painful—it would be for her, and she crept back to her own bunk quietly.

He brought her some breakfast later. No one thought it odd that he’d grabbed an extra meal from the mess hall, since he’d eaten _three_ while sitting alone at a table. This Super Soldier stuff was h—l on his social life, that was for sure. Though honestly it hadn’t been all that rich and thrilling before.

She scrambled into a corner of the bunk when he approached, ready to spring, but he wasn’t impressed and merely dropped the tray on the other end. Then he propped himself up on the opposite bunk to go over the reports and recon photos the General had handed him.

It was not the best mission they’d ever pulled, that was for sure, but they’d walked headlong into a mess—the creature was already in the middle of demolishing the village when they arrived, so there were civilians and farm animals running in every direction, huts on fire, random explosions, of _what_ Blonsky wasn’t sure, because what the h—l would be incendiary in a place where chicken coops were considered high technology? He’d gotten off some good shots—kind of a waste considering the creature seemed to be bullet-proof, but Blonsky hoped it at least irritated him—and then he’d followed the green beast all the way to the river, easily leaving the rest of the company behind. Blonsky was sure he could’ve crossed the river and followed the creature into the woods on the other side—sure, the rapids looked a little fast, but he probably had enhanced swimming ability now, right?—but then Ross started squawking in his ear about ‘regrouping’ and the good soldier in him returned to base as ordered.

Of course, it wasn’t the _good_ soldier who’d managed to snag an injured village girl along the way. Still hard to account for that one. But Blonsky didn’t feel guilty, not at all. He felt like it was the _least_ Ross could allow him.

He glanced over at the other bunk. She seemed to enjoy the sausage, toast, and corned beef hash; the little cartons of milk and orange juice were giving her trouble, though. He was going to ignore it, but then he decided he didn’t fancy the place smelling like spoiled spilt milk for the next several days.

“Hey,” he said, casually, and she looked up sharply as though expecting a rebuke. He pointed to indicate the milk carton she was holding. “Bring that over here.” A few more gestures were necessary to get his point across, or perhaps to assure her he wasn’t going to beat her. Which he _was_ , if she didn’t get her a-s over to him already.

Cautiously she brought the milk carton to him, handing it over while staying as far away as possible. He opened it for her and passed it back as though it were of little consequence, which it was. The modern marvel of the milk carton seemed to keep her occupied for some time after that, as every time he glanced over she was folding it back and forth. After a while he went to the head—even Super Soldiers had to heed the call of nature on occasion—and she stuck her head around the corner to watch. Which seemed a little odd to him at first, until after he’d flushed and washed his hands, and gone back to his bunk, and she darted into the room in his place. Well, she could’ve _asked_ about the bathroom facilities, after all. He’d probably have to show her how to use the shower as well—not an unpleasant prospect.

Shortly before noon there was a knock on the door, startling the girl from her nap. Blonsky didn’t want her to _know_ she was contraband—it seemed like she might be able to use that against him—so he didn’t glance at her as he strolled casually towards the door. If he stood in the right place when he opened it, and she stayed down on the bunk, she’d be well-hidden.

The private who stood at the door was nervous enough that Blonsky could’ve kept an elephant in the room without him noticing. “General Ross would like you to join him for lunch, sir,” the young man announced, not quite making eye contact.

Blonsky had a sudden, vivid vision of snapping the youth’s neck like a twig and leaving him in a heap on the doorstep, like a crumpled marionette whose strings had been cut. They were all puppets, really—of Ross, of the Army, of _whatever_ army. Funny how that had never bothered him before.

Instead of crushing the man’s windpipe, Blonsky merely answered, “I’ll be right there,” and shut the door.

It was after dinner when he returned. The first thing he did was punch the supply cabinet, leaving a large dent in it and doing nothing to his hand. They weren’t going after the creature today, or tonight, or tomorrow morning, or indeed any other planned time. Not enough information, Ross told him, his quick grey eyes assessing every tightened muscle, every impatient glance. They had recon photos, local guides, even maps of the area—granted those were from a geological survey done in the 1960’s, but still. What additional information did Ross think they were going to get? Blonsky had not been enhanced—created anew, he sometimes felt—to sit around and wait for intel. It was very frustrating, to put it mildly.

Also frustrating? Playing guinea pig for the military scientists. They’d been carted along to study the creature, should he be caught; in the meantime, they wanted to study Blonsky. Well, it was a mildly diverting workout they’d given him—lift this, throw that, run ten miles on the treadmill, oh, so sorry about that punching bag, you boys have got another one, right? He found it momentarily amusing to watch their eyes widen at his feats of strength and endurance. But he hadn’t agreed to this in order to become the ultimate decathlete.

The girl peeked her head over the edge of the supply cabinet and Blonsky realized he’d been staring at the dent, without really seeing it, for a good two minutes. He flexed his hand then proceeded into the room, carefully hanging his dress uniform jacket up on a peg before changing into more casual attire. The girl lay back down on her bunk, which seemed more relaxed than curling up in the corner of it, but she still watched his every move. For the first time Blonsky wondered if she ought to have medical attention—she’d been more or less unconscious when he’d found her, but she seemed alert enough now. Maybe it was the wince when she sat up to receive the food he’d brought her that made him think of it.

There wasn’t much to do in this metal shack—if he were an ordinary soldier he would’ve talked to his roommates or played cards with them, or perhaps spent most of his free time away from it, in the mess hall or on the makeshift basketball court. The light and noise of the televisions gave him a headache now, though; and a hole seemed to grow around him in every crowd. So he lay back on his bunk with the light on, not sleeping—he didn’t need as much sleep now—but just breathing, letting his thoughts float through his mind.

The girl had found a sewing kit in one of the supply cabinet drawers and had been patching up her dress, it seemed. Or decorating it: It looked like she’d used up half the thread putting little crescent moons, stars, and flowers around the hem. He didn’t quite know what to make of that but judged it non-harmful.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing. It was really just idle curiosity.

She answered in an unintelligible lilting language, with hand gestures. He didn’t understand a single word.

“Right,” he replied, turning back over. Pointless, really. Should’ve guessed.

“Gillian,” she said. “Gillian.” She repeated the word until he looked over at her in annoyance. “Gillian.” She tapped her chest.

Well, either she was trying to teach him the word for t-ts, which was thoughtful, or she meant that was her name. Probably the latter, based on years of historical adventure movies and, oh yeah, survival training. “Gillian,” he said, pointing at her. She seemed pleased by this response. “Emil,” he told her, indicating himself.

“Emil,” she responded, pointing back at him.

“Bloody fantastic. We know each other’s names,” he commented dryly. “Fancy a f—k, then?” She blinked at him without comprehension, which was probably a good thing. “Go to sleep,” he told her, turning off the light. As he lay there in the dark he began to wonder why he had grabbed her at all, if it wasn’t for carnal pleasure.

**

Contrary to popular belief, Blonsky couldn’t see in absolute darkness. But it wasn’t absolutely dark in the shed, just _very_ dark—a little light bled in from around the door, from the ventilation panel on it. But that was enough for him to see by, after his sensitive ears picked up a slight squeak that shouldn’t be there.

He came up behind her suddenly, sliding his arms into the cabinet drawer on either side of hers, then shoving her forward to shut the drawer on them. That way she was trapped, but conveniently hadn’t had her forearms crushed in the drawer. He felt that was quite thoughtful of him, though somewhat self-serving as a scream of agony would probably bring people running. She gave a brief yelp of surprise as it was.

“Looking for something?” he murmured in her ear, closing in on her in the darkness. She answered with an unsteady word, her pounding heart easily detectable by him. “What?” he asked, as though he had simply misheard her.

Slowly she pulled her arms from the drawer, tucking her fingers into her palms first in case he should try to snap them off. Then she rubbed her arms and let her teeth chatter.

Oh. He pulled out the blanket she’d been digging for, having forgotten how chilly these metal sheds could get at night. It didn’t bother him; he ran hot these days, and the blanket was usually neglected. He draped the scratchy cloth across her front and tugged her backwards, towards his own bunk. Wouldn’t want her to freeze, with just one little blanket.

They lay down on their sides on the narrow bunk, the blanket covering him just enough to trap his body heat for her. She didn’t protest the new and suggestive arrangement, but then again she _did_ seem to be quite cold. Her skin felt cooler to the touch to him than people’s normally did lately, and her bare feet were positively icy against his as her toes grabbed at the hem of the blanket. He pulled her flush against his chest from the edge she had tried to balance on, wrapping his arms tightly around her. After a moment she moaned and arched her back, squirming against him—not because he’d brushed against some arousing location, he realized, but rather because he’d suddenly wrapped the equivalent of a fully-body heating pad around her stiff, sore muscles. Perhaps he should’ve been offering the female soldiers heated rubdowns after their workouts or something—it could be a beneficial spin-off of the Super Soldier program.

He let her get comfortable, though the effect was far from mutual. She fell asleep quickly; he didn’t. Fortunately he didn’t need that much sleep. But his thoughts were more chaotic than ever.

The next day was more of the same—not more holding squirming women but rather more waiting, more talking, more _not doing_. Ross had wanted a dog that wouldn’t run from a bear fight; well what did you do with the dog when there _was_ no bear? Or rather, when you’d decided to sit on your hands while the bear lumbered farther and farther away.

Blonsky didn’t mind the dog analogy; he didn’t mind being called Ross’s ‘boy,’ either, ridiculous as it was. Ross used the terms with appreciation, even if he _didn’t_ appreciate how Blonsky was not-so-slowly going insane, tethered in pointless meetings like a dog leashed in the yard while robbers scaled the fence. He didn’t like the way Garrett said it though, that b---h, like he was something Ross had found stuck to the bottom of his boot one day and become fascinated with. Ross had _made_ him. If she didn’t like the idea, she should be giving distrustful, disdainful glances to the General, not Blonsky. No good soldier would’ve walked away from the opportunity Ross had offered—but only a select few would have even pursued such a project in the first place. There was just something about Garrett that made Blonsky think he would have to kill her someday, and he spent a lot of time in the meetings distracting himself with thoughts of how and where and what his cover would be. It was kind of like meditation.

He paid enough attention to feel the local guides were lying to them, though. Banner had used his medical skills around the village and apparently given them no trouble, until the other night of course. So why should they help people who had obviously suspect motives for wanting to find him? There could be all kinds of hazards they were concealing—sand pits, large predators, abandoned minefields—and for all Ross’s claims to be gathering more intel, he didn’t give any hint that he distrusted the notes from the jabbering villagers. ‘Mild paranoia’ was supposed to be another possible side effect of the serum, so Blonsky’s observations were dismissed.

It really wasn’t wise to dismiss a man who could snap you in half without breaking a sweat.

He brought some food back to the girl at noon and heard the shower running—she must have watched him work it that morning. Well, he could return the favor, he decided, sliding the bathroom door open quietly. Steam billowed out—so much for his hot water ration that week—and he saw her blurred form moving behind the cheap plastic curtain as she rinsed her hair. He didn’t really need stealth training to sneak up on her, not with the rush of the water and her lack of attention. He slid the curtain partially aside. The water sluiced down her body, over the dark bruises that mottled her creamy skin, carrying bubbles from the soap and shampoo. The wet heat intensified the scent he had memorized the other day; it filled his lungs until he could breathe nothing else. He had vivid visions of what he wanted to do to her, too, and they still boiled down to violence. Always violence. Tearing and squeezing and ripping and crushing—he didn’t think he had always been this way. He blinked suddenly, back to reality, and vanished from the bathroom before she could even turn around and wonder about the draft.

He pleased the scientists again: new records in everything he tried! Better to destroy a treadmill than a person—right? Unless that person was a target. A big green target who only questionably counted as a person. That was his focus. Ross, watching stonily on the other side of the lab windows, didn’t seem so thrilled. Neither did Garrett, at his side as usual. Blonsky wondered idly if they’d ever had a thing going. No, Ross was all work and no play. And Garrett pretended she was fine with that. But what was Ross frowning about, as he watched Blonsky lift weights with ease, weights that no human should be able to budge? Maybe Blonsky was getting stronger than Ross had predicted. Maybe he was worried about his dog slipping the leash. Well, if they ever came face to face with the creature again, Ross would be glad Blonsky could do these things. He’d take the leash off willingly then.

He was almost tired when he went back to his bunk. Almost, but not quite. It’d been a long time since he’d actually been _tired_. Gillian was lying on her stomach reading a field manual, or looking at the pictures at least. He supposed she was pretty bored as well.

She didn’t try to hide away when he walked over to her. She’d gotten altogether too comfortable with him, too complacent. She waved her bare feet in the air casually, her skirt bunched around her knees. He still had his visions of what he wanted to do to her, but after his exertions that afternoon in the lab they were a little less… destructive.

He started by running a hand down her calf, which froze her in place—then over her thigh, her hip, up to her ribs, feeling the quick, shallow breaths. Then up to her shoulder and he yanked her up to her knees on the bunk, facing him. If he expected to see terror or at least uncertainty in her eyes, he was disappointed—vaguely insulted, really. Didn’t she know he could rip her to pieces then and there? Could, and maybe would someday. She should at least look nervous, especially when his hand closed around her throat. He could crush it so easily, stop the pulse that fluttered against his palm with just a little squeeze, a little pressure. But her skin felt so good under his hand, cool and smooth, and his mind was blank except for the desire to feel more of it. He didn’t really decide to kiss her—it just happened, suddenly, and for some reason he wasn’t surprised when she started kissing back.

**

It couldn’t last forever, of course. The secret, that is. Probably they’d been making too much noise—sound really carried through those little metal boxes. And she didn’t seem to get the concept of being quiet anyway.

He was on his way back after lunch to check on her when he caught her scent outside, far from the shed where it shouldn’t have been at all, and he knew something had gone wrong. She was surprisingly easy to track—disturbingly so, really, considering it was mostly outdoors—though he probably looked like a lunatic to those around him, or maybe someone with a mad, sniffly case of hay fever. He showed up at Ross’s office just as a messenger was being dispatched to summon him.

She was curled up in a chair in Ross’s office, her face buried in her knees, but he barely glanced at her as he came in. He knew how to play this. Garrett was there, of course, giving him her frostiest look yet. Applied correctly, the woman could stop global warming with just one glare. Although, not if she were dead. Just a thought.

“Major,” Ross greeted. He seemed… disappointed but resigned.

“Sir,” Blonsky returned professionally, as though this were any ordinary meeting.

“Major, this woman was found in your bunk today,” Ross opened, watching the other man closely.

“Yes, sir?” _And_? Your point?

“You knew she was there?” he pressed. Blonsky guessed that was supposed to be a way out—that she had wandered in and fallen asleep, without his knowledge, like Goldilocks. Garrett practically snorted beside him.

“Yes, sir,” Blonsky assured him forthrightly.

“What was she _doing_ there, Major?”

Stupid question. “What’s _your_ theory, General?” Blonsky replied, as if he were truly curious.

Ross gave him a look. “Thank you, Major Garrett,” he said instead, forcing the officer out of the room. She left, her every step a silent protest. Maybe Ross _did_ realize the animosity she held for Blonsky. And vice versa. The General gave Blonsky a steely look and the major tried not to appear too uncaring in return. A good soldier wasn’t disrespectful to his CO that way. “Prisoners of war are supposed to be registered with the military command immediately, Major,” Ross finally said.

“She’s not a prisoner, sir,” Blonsky corrected. Just ignore that whole locked door thing.

“No?” Ross replied dryly. “Then what is she?”

“Local guide, sir.”

Ross snorted. “Look, Blonsky, I don’t mean to make this more difficult for you”—oh, how sweet—“but if she gets hurt, somehow”—like if you rip her to pieces like a mad dog—“there’s gonna be h—l to pay.”

Nonsense. No one was better at cover-ups than the military. She wouldn’t even be missed, an anonymous village girl from a place most Westerners couldn’t find on a map.

Obviously he didn’t say that. Instead he glanced over at her and saw her watching him—through a nice, big, darkening bruise. “ _I_ didn’t hit her,” Blonsky pointed out matter-of-factly.

But Ross knew that. “She attacked Lt. Fowler when he tried to bring her here,” he explained, and Fowler immediately went on Blonsky’s list. “Apparently she bit him. He’s getting stitches now.”

“She does have sharp teeth, sir,” Blonsky agreed. Just under his collar was a rather nasty bruise, in fact, with little teeth marks if you looked closely enough.

Blonsky waited with no trace of guilt—no arrogance, either, well, maybe just a tad, or perhaps confidence was the better term. Like he found nothing unusual at all about the situation, like it wasn’t straight out of a medieval adventure movie that was supposed to appeal to both men _and_ women.

Maybe he watched too many movies. That probably explained why he’d joined Special Forces to begin with.

Blonsky thought about that while Ross watched him, looking for any kind of normal human reaction he could act upon. Finding none, he undoubtedly weighed the pros and cons and decided to salvage what he could—even if that meant landing on the shadier side of the ethical fence. Blonsky saw the moment he gave in and relaxed his posture slightly.

“Well, if she’s a local guide, let’s see what she can tell us about Banner,” Ross announced, sounding as though he were merely being professional. Blonsky knew the girl would be going back to his bunk with him that night—and that they wouldn’t have to try to be quiet any longer.

Ross pulled a photo of Banner out of the folder on his desk and slid it over to Gillian. “You recognize him?” Gillian sniffed in a slightly contemptuous way and flicked the photo aside.

“If I may, sir?” Ross indicated yes and Blonsky righted the picture with dangerous precision, looking down at her expectantly. Gillian’s response was completely different this time—she started to burble in her native language, with effusive hand gestures.

“Guess we’re gonna need a translator,” Ross sighed, reaching for his intercom.

“Show her a picture of the creature,” Blonsky suggested instead. Not that they _had_ good pictures of him, just blurry photos mainly taken with night-vision scopes, or stills from a college kid’s cell phone video. But Ross pulled out the best one and laid it before her anyway.

There was no response again, until Blonsky tapped the photo. For him, she would answer, apparently. And even without the aid of a translator it was pretty clear what she was saying: that Banner had transformed into the terrifying monster who had destroyed her village.

They knew that, of course. But now _she_ knew they knew, and maybe she would be able to tell them something they _didn’t_ know.

Gillian started to draw across the top of the desk with her finger, and Ross immediately tried to hand her a pen and legal pad. She shrank from him, curling back up in her chair.

“This is getting tiresome,” he observed, handing the pen and paper to Blonsky instead.

Blonsky showed her how the pen could mark the paper and felt he had somehow opened a Pandora’s box. She began doodling in the corner of the paper excitedly and then displayed the results to him. “Marvelous. Amazing. Get on with it,” he told her flatly.

Gillian started to draw on the pad laid flat on the desk, but when she saw Ross watching she pulled it back behind her knees secretively. Blonsky walked around to peer over her shoulder.

“What is it?” asked Ross.

“It’s a map,” Blonsky reported. Hopefully better than the ones they currently had. “There’s the river… the village… the forest… What’s this?” he asked her, pointing. For a moment, her words, gestures, and drawings came together in his mind, and he understood. “It’s a cave.”

“A cave?” Ross repeated. “I don’t remember anything about caves.”

“She’s saying, that’s where he is,” Blonsky interpreted, holding up the finished map for the General. There was a large circle around the cave symbol.

Ross took the map, comparing it to the more professional ones on his desk with a frown. Meanwhile, Gillian started drawing her little symbols on her hand and arm with the pen—clearly she was not merely doodling, her concentration was too intense. They were crescent moons, flowers, geometric shapes like she’d already sewed onto the hem of her skirt. Blonsky gazed at them curiously, feeling a vague comprehension of them tickle the back of his mind—not that he knew what they meant, at all, but he understood that they were not random or decorative. When she started drawing them on the arm of the chair Ross finally noticed and snatched the pen away from her, glaring at Blonsky as though he was supposed to be the furniture guardian or something.

“Let’s go to the satcom room,” the General decided abruptly, standing.

Fortunately it wasn’t a long walk, because Gillian was curious about everything they passed, from filing cabinets to fire alarms. “Stop. It,” Blonsky ordered, yanking her away from a water fountain.

He and Ross had to show ID and submit to a retinal scan before they could get into the satellite command room; Gillian was merely dragged through the doorway after nearly running into a plate-glass window. Once inside, Blonsky began to fear for the integrity of the Western world’s satellite defenses—every glowing button and dial seemed to tempt her. Ross handed the crudely-drawn map to one of the technicians and in just moments it appeared on the tabletop display they stood around. Gillian stared, open-mouthed. Well, it _was_ a nifty little feature.

“Overlay the latest satellite photos,” Ross ordered, and the actual image of the river filled in the lines Gillian had drawn, the ruins of the village visible more or less in synch with her symbols, the real forest velvety green under her black cartoon trees.

The technician picked up a light-pen that glowed faintly pink in the light from the display—actually it was just solid Lucite, but “light-pen” helped to justify the two hundred dollar price tag of each one—and dragged the shapes Gillian had drawn around the map, correcting her scaling. “Sorry, sir, I’m not sure where exactly to put this,” he admitted of the cave symbol.

“Overlay the geologic survey,” Blonsky suggested. “Stop f-----g around,” he added to Gillian, grabbing her wrist. She ceased drawing her little crescent moons on the corners of the display with the light-pen she’d purloined—and instead started trying to draw on Blonsky’s shoulder and back. Which didn’t really bother him; the stick of plastic didn’t leave any marks on him, much to her frustration. “Look at that ridge that runs through the forest,” he pointed out, reading the elevation lines. “There could easily be a cave in there.”

“Big enough for him to hide in?” Ross seemed doubtful. “Why wouldn’t the others have mentioned it?”

Because they didn’t _want_ the army to catch Banner? That was the best answer Blonsky had. But he didn’t say it.

Gillian tugged on his hand and he realized she had dropped to a crouch at his feet, half-hidden under the table. He turned to see what she was staring at so nervously and his eyes narrowed as Lt. Fowler entered the satcom room.

“How’s the hand?” Blonsky asked him in a slightly sinister undertone.

Ross didn’t let him answer. “Fowler, I want to talk to those local guides right now. If there’s a large cave in that forest they aren’t telling us about, I want to know why!”

“I’ll go get them, sir,” Fowler agreed, no doubt eager to escape the room and Blonsky’s relentless gaze.

**

“Well _is_ there a cave or _isn’t_ there?!” Ross demanded of the gaggle of local guides surrounding him in the yard. “Blonsky, there you are,” he added in some irritation. “Where’ve you been?”

“Automatic doors, sir,” he replied dryly. “Very confusing.” For Gillian, anyway.

“And where’s the girl?”

She had ducked behind Blonsky, and they soon saw why when he dragged her out. The other villagers reacted immediately, loud and angry. Gillian in return hissed at them like a wet cat from the safety of Blonsky’s side. If any of them came within three feet of her he’d kill them with one blow, he thought suddenly.

“What’s going on?” Ross insisted. “What are you talking about?”

“She _bad_ , she _dark_ ,” one of the villagers tried to explain in high dudgeon. They all pointed, jeering, at the hem of her skirt with its moons and stars. “Markings, of the bad—“

“She’s _what_?” Ross asked, thoroughly confused and more than a little frustrated. “ _What_ is she?”

“A witch,” Blonsky intuited suddenly.

“Yes, witch,” the villager who spoke the most English agreed. “Dark magic. The witches bring the beast!”

“Banner _is_ the beast,” Ross tried to explain. “He’s _been_ the beast for nearly two years! No one else _brought_ it.” This was not taken to heart by the villagers. “Now what about this cave?”

“No cave,” said one.

“Cave gone,” said another.

“No go cave,” said a third, which Ross seized upon.

“There _is_ a cave, then,” he suggested forcefully, and the villagers looked a bit guilty.

“Cave bad.”

“Cave forbidden.”

“Cave magic place.”

Ross rolled his eyes when he heard this. He believed in _science_ —and all the wonders that encompassed—but not the supernatural. “So you weren’t going to tell me about the cave, because it’s _magic_? How big is the cave? Could the beast hide in it?”

“No go cave, no go cave,” the villagers repeated sullenly, chattering among themselves in agreement.

Ross was just about done with them. “Can _she_ take us to the cave?” he snapped, pointing at Gillian.

“Yes,” Blonsky answered for her, with certainty. Not that he had any clue about the villagers’ spiritual beliefs, of course, but if _she_ was allegedly magic, and the _cave_ was allegedly magic, it was a good bet she had been there before.

The idea seemed to enrage the other villagers, however, who began swearing at Gillian and her disloyal dark magic (presumably). She didn’t seem particularly upset by it, but then again she had Blonsky to grab the throat of one who ventured too close.

“Let him go, Major!” Ross ordered. “Blonsky! Let him go!”

Blonsky dropped the man to the ground. He gasped and rubbed his throat, scrambling away as Gillian gave him another little parting hiss. If Blonsky had known the man’s name, it would have gone on his list as well.

“Clear out, all of you,” Ross told the _former_ local guides in disgust. There was no sentiment in him—if he didn’t find someone useful, he didn’t keep them around. “Blonsky! Get her to show you _exactly_ where that cave is!” Fortunately, Gillian was now useful.

**

“What do you think they talk about?” Penman mused, looking at the tiny monitor in front of him.

Baines scoffed next to him. “Nothing! She doesn’t speak English. They probably just f—k all the time.”

“I wonder what she’s doing,” Penmen went on, mystified. Their two screens showed views of Blonsky’s quarters from two angles, and ever since the girl had returned there an hour ago, she’d been drawing a neat row of strange symbols across all the walls they could see. “It’s like—Egyptian hieroglyphs or something.”

Baines shrugged, bored by the low-level surveillance assignment. He hadn’t even been part of the team who’d snuck into Blonsky’s room earlier in the day and bugged it, which might have been a _little_ bit exciting. “I bet he’ll go postal when he comes back and sees what she’s done,” he predicted with glee. Penmen gave him a dubious glance. “Wait, is that him? That’s him!” They both straightened up and clamped the headphones over their ears as the shed door banged and Blonsky walked into view.

“What the f—k are you doing?” he asked in curiosity, also wondering who had been foolish enough to give her a Sharpie. Instead of answering, Gillian shushed him, then reached up to finish drawing one final starburst. Coincidentally, just as she finished the last ray, the picture on the computer monitors turned to snow.

“What the—“ Penmen and Baines banged on the equipment, twisted the dials, checked the connections, to no avail.

Meanwhile, Gillian was trying to explain to Blonsky what she’d done, and somehow, frighteningly, he understood. A quick sweep of the place with his own surveillance equipment—never knew when you were going to need that—revealed the two tiny cameras, which he plucked from their hiding places. He was going to have to have a little chat with the General in the morning. In the meantime, he decided he wouldn’t get after her for drawing her little symbols all over the inside of his uniforms—maybe a reward was called for instead.

**

Banner was strapped down and doped up in a special section of the plane, a fairly pathetic and unimpressive figure at this point. There was always the chance he would start to transform on the trip back to the States, or once in the military lab there, perhaps during some kind of daring break-out attempt by his friends, if he _had_ friends. But those were probably just his own fantasies, Blonsky decided with disappointment. There was nothing like the adrenaline of the hunt, the chase, the fight—and then he’d _won_ , which was nice he supposed, but everything after that was more than a little anticlimactic. Ross didn’t have to _do_ something with him just yet—as long as the creature was potentially a threat, Blonsky was still needed. But suppose they found a way to neutralize the creature? Would Ross’s next task be neutralizing Blonsky—by any means necessary? Blonsky _had_ actually considered that possibility before he agreed to become the Super Soldier—all the movies with this plot ended badly for the super-powered hunter, after all—but he was prepared to argue that there were more threats to the world out there that he could deal with, even if they weren’t huge and green. Terrorists, dictators, that kind of thing—maybe even the occasional mad scientist bent on world domination. Not that Blonsky saw himself as James Bond—although that newest James Bond who was more of an a-s-kicker was pretty good—but surely there was enough turmoil in the world that a Super Soldier wouldn’t be out of a job just yet.

Assuming he was able to stay sane and reasonably obedient. If not, all bets were off.

“Ready to get back to the States?” Ross asked the soldiers lining the sides of the plane, for no apparent reason. He was in a good mood now, thanks to Banner’s capture, and everyone involved was temporarily his buddy.

Garrett stuck her head in, her gloomy countenance threatening to derail Ross’s good humor. “Still not ready to take off, sir,” she reported. “There’s a—personnel issue.” Her eyes shifted over to Blonsky, and he understood immediately what was wrong.

“Bloody h—l,” he snapped, starting to unbuckle himself.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ross, following him and Garrett to the door of the plane.

“The local woman, sir. Gillian?” Garrett supplied. “I’m sure she’s never seen an airplane before.”

Gillian stood on the tarmac near a jeep, looking slightly ridiculous in the camo pants and combat boots Garrett had found for her. She didn’t much like them, either, but Blonsky had promised her wider clothing options when they got to America. _If_ they got to America, which was very much in question right at this moment.

Gillian seemed pleased when she finally saw Blonsky, but he glowered at her in return. “Quit f‑‑‑‑‑g around and get on the f-----g plane,” he snapped. Her response indicated her uncertainties about this particular mode of transportation, and Blonsky tried to reassure her in his usual sensitive manner. “You want to come to America with me, get on the f-----g plane!” he replied, before turning his back on her and returning to his seat.

“Um, she’s still out there, Major,” Garrett pointed out.

“F—k her,” Blonsky responded succinctly. “I don’t care if she f-----g comes or not.” This was true, at least in that exact moment. He had a feeling he might miss her later, but what was he supposed to do? Gently hold her hand and explain to her about the magical metal bird that would take her to far-off lands of wonder? Not exactly his style. Garrett seemed like she expected that, though—or, conversely, that he would just fling Gillian over his shoulder like a caveman and cart her off, kicking and screaming. Sorry to disappoint, but he wasn’t _all_ inhuman hunter, not yet anyway.

Ross was more than a little confused, it appeared, unsurprising considering how much Blonsky had insisted he needed to find a way to bring Gillian back to America with them. “I don’t want to wait much longer,” he warned.

“Don’t wait,” Blonsky told him. “Just leave her here. Sir.” He made an effort to still his fingers that were drumming nervously on his knee—not that he was nervous as in _anxious_ , but sometimes he had a lot of pent-up energy that seemed to force its way out of his body through these little involuntary movements.

Ross gave him a narrow look, then disappeared into the front part of the plane. Checking on Banner again, no doubt. Of course, that was also where all the scientists were, the scientists that had been studying Blonsky as much as Banner. They were always talking about ‘stress indicators’—pulse rate, breathing rate, muscle tension, production of certain brain chemicals, that kind of thing—and the other day when Gillian had wandered into the lab looking for him, apparently his stress indicators had gone way down. This Blonsky knew because their soundproofed observation room wasn’t really soundproofed that well, and if he kept very still he could hear exactly what they were reporting to the General. And when you weren’t really sure what would happen when his stress indicators went way _up_ , other than that it was probably something you would rather hear about later than witness personally, the stress indicators going _down_ was a pretty good thing. Blonsky thought this was probably the only reason Ross had finally conceded to bringing her back with them. She might still be useful, if she could soothe the savage beast.

Wait, the beast was Banner, wasn’t it? Now Blonsky was even mixing up his animal metaphors.

The door opened suddenly and Gillian appeared on the plane, wide-eyed and thoroughly confused about what to do next. She scrambled over to Blonsky as soon as she saw him and curled up next to him, clutching his arm tightly.

“About f-----g time,” he told her, trying to get her buckled in properly. “Stop it! Sit still.” Proper buckling required that she _not_ be clinging to him like a barnacle, so naturally she didn’t like it. “Now look,” he began, trying for his pre-flight pep talk. “I’m sure this experience is going to be f‑‑‑‑‑g terrifying at first. But if you start crying and carrying on, I’m _really_ gonna give you something to f-----g cry about, understand?” He thought she got the idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Blonsky’s expression was unreadable as he pushed through the hospital doors. He had never been particularly effusive, but apparently he now displayed a “concerning” level of emotional detachment, at least according to his therapist. Of course, he wasn’t very forthcoming to his therapist, so perhaps the man’s assessment was a bit off. On the other hand, Blonsky had just been summoned to the hospital because Gillian had been injured in some way, and he wasn’t really thinking about _her_ at all but rather trying to decide how _he_ felt. So maybe Dr. Winston wasn’t too far off the mark after all.

“Blonsky,” he said to the receptionist at the main desk. “My wife was brought in earlier.”

Not that he really thought her condition was serious—Gillian had so many household accidents, he just assumed it was a slightly more serious version of leaving a dishtowel on the burner. Or perhaps, as with the time she had tried to microwave a can of soup, some responding authority had decided she ought to go to the hospital just as a precaution, and he had been called as a matter of form. There, that counted as thinking about Gillian, didn’t it?

He saw her sitting on a bed in the ward, holding an icepack to the side of her face. When she spotted him her expression became embarrassed and her eyes dropped to her lap. Not her idea to call him, then, he surmised.

“Oh, Major!” That was Gillian’s friend, Patty, who sat in a chair next to the bed. Her husband was a lieutenant; they lived next door and she didn’t have a job, either, so she hung about with Gillian and helped her out. Seemed nice enough, Blonsky thought, if a bit… normal. “Major, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault, really.”

Blonsky switched his scrutiny from Gillian to Patty. “Really?”

“Er, well, I mean, it was an accident,” Patty corrected, flustered by his gaze. She was awfully easy to fluster. “See, we’ve got this new dog—“

“I’ve noticed.” The little black lab puppy tended to bark. A lot.

“—and somehow it got over the fence while Gillian was in the yard, and I guess she’s never seen a dog before,” Patty went on quickly. Blonsky gestured for Gillian to move the icepack so he could see how bad the bruise was. “And I guess she got scared and—“

“And?” Blonsky prompted.

“She ran into the sliding glass door,” Patty finished in a small voice, embarrassed for her friend.

With good reason. “Again?” he asked flatly. Gillian didn’t look up.

“Oh, but she’s okay!” Patty went on with forced brightness. “The doctor says she doesn’t have a concussion or anything!”

“She’s fine?” Blonsky repeated, staring at Patty, who nodded. “Then why did you call me?” Maybe he was missing something.

Or not, since Patty just kind of blinked at him. He turned to leave. “You can take her home, then?” he confirmed.

“Uh, well, yes—“ Patty replied.

“Thanks.” He walked out.

Fortunately he passed by the little florist’s shop on his way to the door and decided to drop in. Gillian liked lilies. “Better hurry, she’ll be discharged soon,” he advised. Something caught his eye and he took a closer look, then added it to the order. It was appropriate to give your wife a stuffed black lab when she’d been scared by a _real_ one, wasn’t it? It was kind of funny, anyway.

A few hours later he unlocked the front door of the nondescript base house. “Gillian! Why don’t I f-----g smell dinner?” he shouted immediately. “Did you order pizza—Oh. It’s you.”

Patty had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, hello, Major. Uh, Gillian’s just upstairs resting.”

“Why does she need rest?” he interrogated. “You said she was fine.”

“Well, she is, she’s just tired I guess—“

Patty followed him up the stairs, blathering all the way. At least she shut up when he went into the master bedroom and locked her out in the hall. He set his hat aside and hung his jacket up, then sat down on the edge of the bed and loosened his tie. A bouquet of lilies, and the stuffed dog, sat on the nightstand. Gillian had already changed into her pajamas and was curled up under the blankets.

“Hey.” He shook her leg and she sat up reluctantly. “You feel okay?” She had a nasty black and yellow bruise down the side of her face. Once again people would think he’d been beating her. She shrugged listlessly in response to his question and he brushed his hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “Your head hurt?” She nodded. “Over here?” He didn’t quite touch the bruise. “How about here?” He touched her forehead, her other cheek, the back of her head. Those didn’t seem to hurt, which was good. “You feel sick to your stomach, then?” No, not that either. “You dizzy at all?” No. Probably no concussion then, as the doctor had said. He pulled her closer and she curled up on his lap, cool against the unnatural warmth of his body. “What’s wrong, then?”

She mumbled something against his chest. He didn’t so much understand the words as the general meaning.

“You’re embarrassed? Well, you should be,” he replied. “That’s f-----g stupid, running into that door again. But it’s nothing to get upset about.” She mumbled something else. “No, don’t worry about taking me from my job,” he assured her. “Nobody cares. I don’t really do anything anyway.” Which was true, he mainly worked out for the scientists, took psych tests for Dr. Winston, and occasionally read security reports. He was still an excellent strategist, after all. When he could concentrate. But still, it wasn’t like vital work didn’t get done if he stepped out of the office.

“Bad magic door,” Gillian huffed.

“You know what I’m gonna do?” Blonsky decided. “I’m gonna get rid of that f-----g bad magic door for you.”

Gillian hugged him and burbled more cheerfully. He sat her back on the bed and stood. “You hungry? You want something to eat? Alright, I’ll go make something.”

He headed downstairs to the kitchen and had to step around Patty, who disappointingly hadn’t gone home yet. Without a word to her he opened the fridge and took out a beer first, tossing it back as he perused the rest of the fridge’s contents.

“So, um, is Gillian feeling better?” Patty asked nervously. Blonsky got the sense she really didn’t like to be alone with him, which was wise.

“Yes, thank you,” he said with some semblance of politeness, digging some deli meat out of the fridge. They could have sandwiches, that was simple enough. “You can go now.” He could just take the bread and everything upstairs, since he would probably eat three or four himself.

“Maybe I should just check on Gillian again, before I go,” Patty suggested hesitantly. Blonsky gave her a long look. “Or, you know, my husband’s already home, I’m sure, so maybe I’ll just go, and check on her tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Blonsky responded randomly, piling the sandwich fixings onto a cookie sheet. Maybe he should get Gillian some kind of a… tray or something. For serving food. What would they call such a thing? “Good-bye.” Finally Patty left, and he felt he could actually relax. Having other people around made him uncomfortable. Dr. Winston said this was because Blonsky was worried about hurting them, but this felt too altruistic to him. Patty had been very kind to Gillian and helped her out a lot with all the little things she just wasn’t used to, like grocery shopping and ice and toilet paper rolls, which Blonsky very much appreciated. But he could still easily envision snapping her neck in the middle of the living room, especially when she got to yapping, and when he did so he felt no particular feelings of remorse or repulsion. That was one of those little things he didn’t volunteer to Dr. Winston.

**

Maybe the reason Blonsky preferred to be alone, or alone with Gillian, was that it seemed like he was scrutinized by other people _all day long_. He didn’t have a proper office on the base; oh, it was a room that _looked_ like an office—quite a nice one, in fact—but it was filled with security cameras and ‘stress indicator’ monitors, and one wall held a mirror that was really a window into a research lab. And every morning when he came in the first thing he had to do was stick some electrical patches onto the proper bodily locations, so he could be monitored even _more_ closely. So even when he wasn’t identifying facial expressions for Dr. Winston or lifting weights for the researchers he was still being _studied_. It was enough to make someone a homicidal lunatic. If they weren’t already.

He did at least have a secretary. Blonsky wondered what offense the man had given his superiors to get _this_ nowhere job, but Michael seemed happy enough—every time Blonsky came by he had his feet up, reading a fantasy novel with a large-breasted woman on the cover. Not too many Army postings you’d get to do that in.

Today, though, he had a job for his secretary. “I want to remodel my house,” Blonsky said to the young man.

Michael put down his novel attentively. “Your house on the base, sir?” he asked in confusion.

“No, my house in Cancun,” Blonsky shot back dryly. Maybe the guy had been demoted for incompetence. “Yes, my house on the base,” he added, just to be sure he was understood.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to remodel those, sir,” Michael suggested.

“Well, I’m going to do it anyway,” Blonsky decided. “Not that I really care, but it would probably be better for _you_ if you found a way to make it alright. Proper forms and all. See, I’m probably going to need power tools,” he continued, becoming more interested in the project as he went on, “and if they find me running around with a chainsaw without permission, they’ll probably lock me up somewhere. And then you might be assigned to a _real_ job.”

Michael took this in quickly. Then he turned to his computer. “I’ll find those forms for you, sir,” he agreed.

“Good lad.”

**

Finally, a real assignment, a chance to use both the skills he’d developed on his own _and_ the ones Ross had enhanced. No more sitting around, no more pretending a treadmill was a landscape he was crossing or that a punching bag was the enemy, no more reading reports about situations he wished he were _in_. He was finally back in the briefing room, watching the revolving map display, taking in the facts and figures about the terrorist the US government wanted hunted down. This was someone who had evaded capture for years, someone intelligent and resourceful who was intimately acquainted with the landscape in which he hid—possibly someone who, though not huge and green, might make a worthy opponent. This was very exciting.

“Any questions?” Ross asked gruffly.

“Just one, sir,” Blonsky replied. “Who are _they_?” He indicated the rest of the people crowded around the table.

“That’s your _team_ , Major,” Ross answered, and something about his tone told Blonsky he’d known this would be unpopular.

“My… _team_?” They all looked twenty-five and clean-cut; Blonsky couldn’t imagine what he needed them for.

“Yes, Major,” Ross assured him. “They’re specialists, they’re the best at what they do, and you’re going to work with them.”

Huh. Bet Dr. Winston wished he could come along and observe _this_ particular test of socialization.

**

Only one thing bothered Blonsky about this new assignment. Well, one and a half, counting the whole ‘team’ thing. That could go either way, a help or a hindrance to him. The thing that bothered him most, though, was leaving Gillian behind alone. Although that was part of being an Army wife, certainly, they _were_ somewhat of a special case and he had never considered this particular aspect with her before.

One evening after supper he heard the neighbors’ dog barking again and looked out through the back window—no more sliding glass door, just a normal door and two normal windows—and saw Patty in her backyard.

“I’m going outside for a minute,” he told Gillian, who was cleaning up from supper. “Leave the dishes, I’ll do them later.” Washing dishes was an oddly soothing task, he’d found.

“Bad dog,” she warned him suspiciously.

“I know. He’s still in his own yard.” As long as the dog was out he knew Gillian would probably stay in, despite the new fence he’d put up for her. Well, she’d venture out again when the weather improved and the dog stayed confined to its own space.

Blonsky walked over to the fence and leaned on it casually, as casually as he could anyway, and waited until he could catch Patty’s eye. “Mrs. Carter,” he greeted expectantly.

She smiled, then glanced towards her house to see if her husband was watching—for safety, not jealousy—then looked around for Gillian. Finding no one else to witness their interaction, she stayed out of arm’s reach, which Blonsky felt was a wise precaution. “Major. Um, how are you?”

“Where did you get your dog?” he asked instead.

Suddenly Patty looked fearful for the life of her loud, rambunctious pet. “Um, the Humane Society. Why?”

“They have cats there?” Blonsky queried.

“Um… Yeah, yeah, they do,” Patty agreed. “They had a bunch, in fact, when we went to pick up Daisy.”

“Will you get a cat for me?” She blinked at him in confusion and Blonsky decided he ought to explain, at least a little bit. “It’s for Gillian, so she won’t be lonely when I’m away.”

“Oh, are you going on a trip?” Patty asked in surprise. Blonsky just stared at her. “Er, I mean, that’s a great idea, that’s very sweet. It’s just, you guys should probably go to the shelter yourselves, you know, meet the animals, pick out one that seems friendly—“

“We’re not allowed off the base,” Blonsky reminded her. That was a _far_ bigger insurance risk than the US Army was willing to take.

“Oh, right.”

“So will you do it?” he pressed. He didn’t see what the big deal was. You go in, grab a cat, put it in a box, bring it home. Nothing at all, really. It was just that he was pretty sure they didn’t send cats by mail, or he wouldn’t have bothered her.

“Um… sure,” Patty finally decided. “Sure, that sounds great. Does Gillian like cats?” she added tentatively.

“Don’t all witches?” he deadpanned. “Better look for a black one. Young, a kitten if possible. Healthy,” he specified. “A normal cat, not some psychotic abused one. And we’ll need some cat accessories. Like… whatever cats need.” He hadn’t done too much research on this topic. There were only so many small, common pets you could cuddle, and he knew Gillian didn’t like dogs. The remaining choice seemed obvious. “Would you prefer a requisition account number, or cash?”

“Do you have cash?” Patty asked with interest.

“I’d have to requisition it.” If they never went off the base, they never needed cash.

“Oh. Well, that would probably be easier for me,” Patty suggested.

It was all the same to Blonsky. Michael would do the paperwork, after all. “I’ll need a documented estimate of the final cost,” he reminded her. “I’m leaving at the end of the week. I want Gillian to have it before then.”

The deadline sparked Patty into action. “Oh! Well, I’ll go to the shelter tomorrow morning then and see what we need to do. It took a few days to get Daisy…”

“Thanks,” Blonsky told her. Having conveyed and received all the important information, he was already walking back to the house. “Oh. It’s a surprise,” he added as an afterthought. Hmm, he hoped Gillian _did_ like cats.

**

Garrett stood stiffly at the door, waiting for it to be answered, a manila folder crisp in her hand. She was not happy to be doing this. But it was not the fault of the person she hoped would soon open the door. It was Blonsky’s little mess, which he’d left behind for others to clean up, as usual. She understood that he was dangerous. She agreed that he was a little looser of a cannon than someone so dangerous should be. But she knew he wasn’t oblivious to normal human emotions just yet, despite what Dr. Winston would have the General believe. He was, in fact, just an unpleasant man in the right profession.

Gillian finally opened the door and gave a welcoming smile when she recognized her visitor. “Garrett! Come, come, come.” She gestured for the woman to enter. “Sit, sit. You want beer?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Garrett responded, sitting on the edge of a floral-patterned couch. The house did not exactly scream ‘Blonsky,’ which she hoped he found irritating.

“Milk?” Gillian offered instead.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Garrett repeated. “I’ve just come about—“

“Cheese?”

“No, thank you,” Garrett said, a bit more forcefully. Gillian finally nodded and perched attentively on the edge of a chair. “I’ve just come about a requisition request your husband submitted before he left—Ma’am?” If ever a person had looked forlorn, it was Gillian.

“Emil no here,” she informed Garrett sadly. “Emil gone.” She made a swooping gesture with her hand to indicate the airplane he’d taken off in.

“Yes, ma’am,” Garrett agreed awkwardly. “He submitted this request for cash, but there was no supporting documentation. I was hoping you could explain it.” Gillian blinked at her and Garrett wondered just how many words of that she had understood. Surely the only way to put up with Blonsky was to not understand anything he said. Garrett handed the form to her anyway.

Gillian looked it over carefully, pointing out all the words she knew with interest. Garrett forced herself to remain still and calm. Finally Gillian got to the description section, which was quite short. Her eyes lit with understanding.

“Oh yes, very important,” she assured Garrett.

“You know what he’s talking about, ma’am?” the Major asked carefully.

Gillian stood and gave her back the form. “Yes! You want see?”

Garrett’s eyes widened in alarm. “Uh, no, ma’am, that’s not really—“

“Come, come,” Gillian insisted. “Come bedroom, I show. Nice—fluffy—soft!”

“I’m sure it is, ma’am,” Garrett replied in a slightly strangled tone, “but I don’t really need to—“

Something small and black suddenly streaked down the stairs, clattered through the kitchen, and finally scampered over to Gillian, who scooped it up and cuddled it. Garrett clenched her jaw tightly, unsure of her own response. “Pretty kitty, good cat,” Gillian cooed to the kitten. “F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is good cat!”

“Major Blonsky bought you a cat,” Garrett surmised.

“Nice—fluffy— _soft_ ,” Gillian nodded. “Emil no here. F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy here.”

“To keep you company while he was gone,” Garrett translated. Interesting. “Where did you _get_ the cat?” Seeing as how neither one was allowed to leave the base.

Gillian pointed next door. “Patty-Patty bring F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy.”

“The Carters got it for you,” Garrett decided. “I suppose the cash is for them.”

By way of response Gillian held the kitten out to Garrett. “You want pet F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Garrett assured her. “Perhaps I’ll go next door and ask Mrs. Carter if she has a receipt from the purchase.”

“Okay,” Gillian agreed. “Say hi Patty-Patty. Bye-bye, come back.”

Garrett escaped from the house quickly and headed for the neighbors’. Somehow talking to Gillian was just as unnerving as talking to Blonsky, albeit in a different way. Blonsky was just an a-s, she decided, knocking on the Carters’ door. Now she would have to spend precious time this afternoon correcting the slightly dented golden boy’s paperwork, as he’d no doubt intended. After all, they couldn’t have a Senate auditor coming across a cash requisition request for “a little pussy,” could they?

**

Blonsky drummed his fingers on the Styrofoam cooler sitting on the bench next to him. It was an annoying habit that he wished he could break, but sitting still was somewhat of a problem for him, at least when he wasn’t actively engaged in a mission. This had been a good mission, in his opinion; the opponent was mildly diverting, the rules were few, and in the end he had won. He could do this… two or three times a month and be perfectly content. Did the Western world even _have_ that many enemies for him to hunt down? Or rather, that many enemies with good intel on their current locations? Because he could barely survive sitting around at _home_ doing nothing, there was no way he could sit around some hotel in Cairo or Seoul, waiting for the target to be spotted. He thought of himself more like a heat-seeking missile: point him in the right direction and he would run his target down, no matter what twists and turns he had to take. He hoped his success on this mission would convince the General to deploy him more often.

On the other hand, ‘his’ team didn’t exactly look like they were enjoying their success. The only one who would even make eye contact with him was that curly-haired math geek, which immediately made Blonsky suspicious of him anyway. Well, they had performed competently overall, he supposed, trying to be fair, and _had_ saved him _some_ small amount of time and trouble.

And now they were going home—almost there, in fact. Well, ‘home’ meaning the Army base in South Dakota, where Gillian was. The rest of the team would probably be dispersed back to where they came from—unless there was another assignment for them right away. But Blonsky wasn’t going to get his hopes up. He could stand to spend a couple days with Gillian now anyway.

The plane landed on the runway of the base and its passengers began to stand, stretch, and gather their gear. There wasn’t much talking, although the math geek did offer to buy Blonsky a beer at the officers’ club sometime. Some private scurried out onto the runway and took Blonsky’s bag for him—a nice perk, that—but when he tried to take the large cooler Blonsky also carried, he pulled it out of reach. “I’ll keep it.” The General had been very specific about wanting to be sure the target had been killed—Blonsky figured someone could potentially survive getting an ear or finger chopped off, so he’d brought the entire head back. Hard to suggest someone wasn’t dead after _that_. Most of the team had been a little squeamish about that for whatever reason, but a head was a lot easier to cart back than the whole body and anyway, Blonsky thought the gesture had a kind of epic grandeur about it, sort of Biblical, almost. Too bad he would just be delivering the head to the General in a Styrofoam box and not, say, on a silver platter or a spike (probably a little messy for indoor use). He couldn’t imagine why he’d never thought of doing it before.

**

Gillian was at the sink doing the dishes and he easily snuck up behind her and slid his arms around her. She jumped in surprise.

“You scare me!” she accused unnecessarily.

“Sorry,” Blonsky told her unapologetically, nuzzling her ear. “I wasn’t really trying to be quiet. You must have been daydreaming.”

“I used to empty house,” she replied loftily. “I forget all about you.”

“Oh really? One week gone and I’m forgotten, huh?” he remarked. “I shouldn’t have gotten you that f-----g cat, then.”

“F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is good cat,” Gillian assured him. “Nice—fluffy—soft.”

“Why do you call him F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy?” Blonsky queried, reaching around her to wash a dish in tandem. He had been curious about the cat’s name for two days, but this was the first time they’d had even a semblance of conversation since he’d returned home. They’d been otherwise occupied, making up for that lost week.

“F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is cat name,” Gillian non-explained, bumping his dish with hers as she tried to keep scrubbing.

“I _know_ it’s his name,” Blonsky replied, rolling his eyes. “But _why_ did you name him that?”

“ _You_ name,” Gillian countered in confusion.

“ _I_ did?” Blonsky repeated, also in confusion.

“I say, ‘Pretty kitty, so fluffy,’” Gillian recalled, “and _you_ say, ‘Yes, he f-----g fluffy.’ So is cat name now.”

Blonsky leaned his head against hers for a moment. “That wasn’t really what I _meant_ ,” he pointed out in defeat.

“Well, you be more clear,” Gillian suggested without concern. “No change now, cat be confused.”

“Like the f-----g cat even _knows_ its name,” Blonsky snorted. He pressed closer, supposedly to better reach a new dirty dish. “How’d you get so many dishes piled up, anyway?” he asked. “You have a f‑‑‑‑‑g party or what?”

“No party!” Gillian assured him. “But _you_ wash dish. You say nice but _not_ nice,” she added accusingly.

“You don’t like washing dishes? Well, I’ll get you a dishwasher, then,” Blonsky promised.

“You dishwasher?” Gillian asked, confused.

“No, it’s a machine,” he tried to explain. “It washes dishes for you. Like the clothes washer washes clothes.”

“Ohhhh. Okay.” She smacked his hand as it got in her way again. “You make mess!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gillian giggled. “Stop! You get water!”

“Water? What?” claimed Blonsky innocently. “ _I’m_ not getting wet.”

Gillian squirmed around in his arms to face him, showing him where he’d splashed water all down the front of her dress. “See? You get water!”

“You’re very sloppy at this dishwashing thing,” he observed critically. “I’ll have to get you a machine.”

She slid her wet hands around his neck, quickly soaking through his t-shirt, but he didn’t really care that much. Instead he lifted her up to the edge of the sink and leaned in to kiss her. A whole week was a lot to make up for.

“Garrett here,” Gillian reported after a moment, and Blonsky pulled back immediately.

“What? _Now?_ ” _That_ would be a bucket of cold water for sure.

“No, before. When you no here,” Gillian clarified.

He relaxed again. “Oh. What did she want, then?”

“A little pussy.”

Again Blonsky leaned back to stare at Gillian, a whole new suite of thoughts flowing through his brain. “ _What?_ ”

She giggled. “About F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy. You _bad_ with paper.”

For a moment Blonsky was mystified, then he remembered the requisition form he’d put in and snickered. “That p----d her off, did it?” he asked hopefully, and Gillian nodded. “Good. You got the money, though, right?”

Gillian nodded again. “Garrett talk Patty-Patty. Then, I get money, and I give Patty-Patty.” She threw her arms around him suddenly and squeezed. “Thanks for kitty! Good cat.”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome,” Blonsky replied, slightly awkward. “The f‑‑‑‑‑g thing’s not sleeping with us anymore, though. I almost crushed it this morning.”

“No hurt F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy!” Gillian admonished.

“Well, not on _purpose_ ,” Blonsky assured her. Although if it kept darting around the house like that he was going to snatch it out of mid-air someday and probably scare it to death.

Gillian squirmed against him, though not necessarily in a good way. “We go upstairs? Sink bad.”

He supposed the edge of the sink might indeed be uncomfortable. “How about the couch?” the countered. The bedroom seemed _awfully_ far away at the moment.

**

Blonsky stood before the General’s desk, at-ease but not invited to sit. He had a feeling Ross was displeased with him. The whole severed-head thing hadn’t gone over as well as he’d envisioned. Maybe he should have cleaned it off first. At any rate, Ross had been digesting the mission reports for two days now, and from his expression Blonsky didn’t think he’d be getting a hearty pat on the back for his efforts—metaphorically speaking, of course, he didn’t really like to be touched.

Of course, maybe the reason for the General’s ire wasn’t Blonsky at all. “Did you get the DNA results back, sir?” he queried. “Was it al-Rashid?” It was definitely the man whose photograph Blonsky had been shown.

“Yes, it was him,” Ross agreed grimly, so now Blonsky was totally confused. But then again, he had trouble deciphering facial expressions these days, so maybe the General was actually thrilled. “I have the reports here from the other members of your team,” Ross went on. Blonsky waited patiently. “Most of them accuse you of excessive brutality and property destruction.” Oh. “Anything to say for yourself, Major?”

“I did what I felt was necessary, sir,” Blonsky replied without remorse. But with some irritation at the pansies the military was turning out these days.

“Captain Summers says at least six civilians were killed in your pursuit of al-Rashid,” Ross went on.

“I can’t speak to that, sir,” Blonsky answered crisply. “I wasn’t counting.”

Ross slammed his fist on the desk suddenly, though Blonsky didn’t jump. “G-------t, Blonsky, that is unacceptable!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Next time I’ll count.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, _soldier_ ,” Ross snapped warningly. “You are working for the US Army and you are not to endanger civilians as you complete your mission.” Blonsky didn’t have anything to say that was in the proper tone, so he chose to keep silent and stare at the picture on the wall behind Ross. It had ducks on it, and the edges were crenellated, like a postage stamp. Curious. “Any response, Major?” the General prompted, perhaps unwisely. Blonsky turned his laser-like gaze on him.

“If you wanted me to have compassion, sir, you should’ve injected it along with everything else,” Blonsky told him coolly. “I hunted down the person you told me to hunt down. Sometimes people got in my way. I presume that if anyone else could’ve gotten al-Rashid, _I_ wouldn’t have been sent in. And now your terrorist who killed thousands of civilians is dead.” And would soon be replaced by another, no doubt, but there was no need to get into politics.

Ross had to give in. Someday he wouldn’t, and Blonsky would find himself locked in a concrete box deep underground, poked and prodded even more but with greater caution, until finally Ross decided he was too much of a liability to even keep alive. That was the fate Blonsky saw for himself, but it didn’t scare him. He was getting worse, more powerful, harder to control, but—he still harbored the idea of a tropical island retreat, literally, somewhere isolated, away from other people, where he and Gillian could retire someday. But only if he managed to be useful to Ross for a while longer—if his usefulness outweighed the negative consequences of his actions. And Blonsky really had no intention of trying to reduce the so-called negative consequences, so his only hope was to keep finding useful missions to accomplish.

“Sit down, Major,” Ross finally said. “What did you think of your team?”

“Adequate,” Blonsky replied shortly. “Less irritating than I expected.”

Ross smirked faintly at that. “You’d work with them again?”

The tease of work in general lured Blonsky. “If they had the stomach for it, sir.” Maybe they would get used to him in time.

“Any in particular you liked?” Ross queried.

Was the General planning a playdate for him or what? “Lieutenant Loker seemed less annoying than the others, sir,” Blonsky decided.

Ross snorted. “Figures. He’s failed two psych tests.”

And yet he was still employed by the Army. “Perhaps he just needs a tutor, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

For a second, Blonsky’s hopes rose as he opened the door to see the General standing on his front step. A mission so urgent Ross had come directly to his home to tell him about it? But the General’s smile quickly dashed those thoughts, and when he moved aside to reveal Dr. Winston behind him, Blonsky fought to keep from glowering. “Oh. It’s _you_ ,” was the best greeting he could manage.

“Just a social call, Major,” Ross assured him. “Mind if we come in?”

If this was a social call, then all Blonsky did all day was socialize. This was an at-home pop quiz. Blonsky was surprised they hadn’t brought a video camera. “Sure. Come in. Stay for dinner,” he replied without enthusiasm.

“It smells delicious,” Ross responded, slightly forced.

“Gillian!” Blonsky shouted, although the kitchen was right there. “Two more places for dinner.”

She stuck her head around the swinging door. “Oh, guests!” she exclaimed, with _real_ enthusiasm. “I get beer.”

“Have a seat,” Blonsky suggested, dropping back onto the couch.

“Don’t let us interrupt, Major,” Dr. Winston insisted, which was slightly impossible at this point. “Just do whatever you would normally be doing.”

Right. Well, Blonsky was used to working with people staring at him all day. But he liked to relax in his own _home_. Too bad there weren’t stress monitors attached to him, Winston could have noted their rise on his clipboard.

But, Blonsky didn’t have a problem with _trying_ to ignore his visitors, if that’s what they wanted. He picked up the book he’d been reading—a history of conflict in the Middle East, by a US Army general—and tried to find his place again. Winston scribbled down the title with interest.

Gillian returned bearing three bottles of beer. “Here, for you,” she said cheerfully, distributing them. They didn’t get many visitors, but Gillian liked to entertain. She stood watching them expectantly as they opened their beers and took a sip. Then she announced, “Okay, dinner now!”

Blonsky tossed his book aside and followed her into the kitchen. Where he immediately lost his temper. “Get off the f‑‑‑‑‑g table!” he roared at the cat, who was lounging in the middle of the dinner table. The creature’s survival instincts kicked in and it leaped onto the floor, away from Blonsky. “Get out of the f‑‑‑‑‑g kitchen!” he continued, taking a threatening step in its direction. The cat skittered across the kitchen floor and out the door that Blonsky slammed open for it.

Gillian faced him indignantly, hands on her hips. “No yell at F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy!” she chastised. “F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is good cat!”

“How many times do I have to f‑‑‑‑‑g tell you, keep the f‑‑‑‑‑g cat off the f‑‑‑‑‑g table?!” Blonsky demanded in return. “The f‑‑‑‑‑g cat walks in s—t, then walks on the f‑‑‑‑‑g table! I don’t want to eat off a table f‑‑‑‑‑g covered in cat s—t!”

“F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is good cat, and _clean_ cat!” Gillian insisted hotly. She was not afraid of him. “He f‑‑‑‑‑g lick!”

“Oh, he licks the s—t off his feet, _then_ walks on the f‑‑‑‑‑g table!” Blonsky summarized sarcastically. “That’s so much f‑‑‑‑‑g better! CLEAN THE F‑‑‑‑‑G TABLE!”

The oven buzzer went off suddenly. “ _You_ clean f‑‑‑‑‑g table,” Gillian sniffed loftily. “I get f‑‑‑‑‑g ham.”

“I’ll get the ham,” Blonsky grumbled. “Just clean the f‑‑‑‑‑g table.”

Gillian got out some paper towels and Windex and proceeded to swab off the dinner table, while Blonsky opened the open door and removed the large ham—without the benefit of potholders. “Uh, doesn’t that hurt?” Ross asked, and Blonsky looked over at him in some surprise. He’d forgotten they even _had_ visitors, really. Well, they wanted a look at a typical dinner in the Blonsky household, and they got it.

“No, not really,” he finally replied, looking down at his own slightly reddened fingers. “You want the fries out, too?” he asked Gillian in a perfectly civil tone, as if he hadn’t been screaming his head off at her a moment ago.

“Yes, please, thank you,” she responded in kind. “You sit, sit,” she encouraged their guests pleasantly. “Table clean now,” she added to Blonsky, pointedly.

“Thank you.”

He got down some dinner plates and started to cut up the ham while Gillian distributed French fries, steamed peas, and pineapple salsa. “I make,” she told Ross and Winston proudly. “Good salsa. Yes?” She poked Blonsky in the arm.

“Yes, it’s very good,” he agreed. “People say it’s spicy, though,” he added warningly.

Gillian served plates of food to their guests and Blonsky carried his own—heaped with twice as much food—to the table and sat down. He waited patiently while Gillian set a fifth plate containing a small portion of each food at one end of the table and used a toothpick to draw a few symbols on it in ketchup. Then she lit the decorative candle from the center of the table and set it beside the plate. Finally she joined the others with her own food and Blonsky started to eat.

“Uh, what were you doing just now?” Dr. Winston asked curiously, indicating the extra plate of food and the candle. Gillian answered, but not in English.

“It’s for the spirits,” Blonsky explained off-hand, piling several pieces of ham on his fork. “Or the ancestors. Both, I guess. You have to feed them once a day or they get angry. Just like the cat,” he added cheekily. “The spirits live in fire, so normally they would put the food for them in a cooking fire or something,” he went on. “But we’ve decided that in America, the spirits live in the garbage disposal. Which you also shouldn’t put your hand in,” he reminded Gillian, “just like fire.”

“I know,” she insisted.

“And would you say this was a typical food combination for your dinners, Major?” Winston pressed.

Blonsky looked down at his plate as though noticing the particular choices for the first time. “Yeah, I guess. I just eat it.”

“Good triangle meal,” Gillian proclaimed.

“Uh, square meal?” Ross suggested politely.

“Food pyramid,” Blonsky corrected.

“Meat, fruit, vegetable, carb—oh, forget dairy,” Gillian realized, hopping up.

“Yeah, where’s my f‑‑‑‑‑g dairy?” Blonsky seconded.

She poured him a tall glass of milk. “There is dairy. Dairy?” she offered the others, who declined. “F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy like dairy,” she added innocently, sitting back down. Blonsky rolled his eyes. “F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is good cat.”

“Yes, he’s a good cat,” he agreed with a sigh.

“Nice—fluffy— _soft_.”

“He still walks in s—t,” Blonsky insisted. “Don’t let him on the table. Or the counters. You can get diseases from cat s—t.”

“What disease?” Gillian demanded.

“F‑‑‑‑‑g Google it,” he shot back.

“Why you give F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy, then?” she asked, clearly not buying his argument.

“Because I’m trying to kill you in a more subtle way than by sticking this fork through your heart,” he replied dryly. Gillian did not seem to take offense.

“You like?” she asked their guests, indicating their food. “You need?”

“It’s very good,” Ross told her.

“Pretend we aren’t here,” Winston repeated. “Just do whatever you would normally do.”

Blonsky tried to remember what he normally did. It was surprisingly difficult, like when someone told you to ‘act naturally’ and you froze up.

“Um… what did you do today?” he asked Gillian. That was what he normally did.

She began to burble in her native language, which he told people was Russian. It wasn’t Russian, not even close, but you hardly ever met anyone on the base who actually _spoke_ Russian, so it didn’t matter. And _he_ was Russian, so people didn’t usually question it further. Blonsky didn’t know _what_ language it was, really.

“Do you understand what she’s saying, Major?” the General asked discreetly.

“No,” Blonsky admitted. “It’s kind of nice to listen to, though.” Winston scribbled furiously on his notepad.

Since Blonsky had more food, he took longer to eat, which meant Gillian did most of the talking. He didn’t mind. He didn’t really do anything at ‘work’ worth talking about, and even if he wanted to complain he couldn’t do it with Ross and Winston right there.

The cat meowed outside the kitchen door and tried to push its way in. “Do not let that f‑‑‑‑‑g cat in the kitchen!” Blonsky ordered.

“F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is—“

“He’s a good f‑‑‑‑‑g cat, I know,” Blonsky finished, “but he’s gonna get up on the f‑‑‑‑‑g table again.” They also had this conversation almost every night. The routine of it was more soothing than he imagined it sounded.

“Cat walk on bed,” Gillian pointed out. “Cat walk on couch, on lap.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Gillian looked around at the mostly-empty plates. “Dessert now!” she decided, jumping up. “I make angelfish cake!” She proudly showed off a fresh angelfood cake.

“No actual fish involved,” Blonsky assured their guests. He was still working on seconds of his main meal as the others ate dessert. The silence grew awkward, which, granted, it might have even if they _weren’t_ pretending Ross and Winston were invisible.

“Go get your puzzle,” Blonsky finally suggested to Gillian. She disappeared to the living room and came back with a newspaper crossword—and the cat. “F‑‑‑‑‑g h—l,” Blonsky sighed.

“Good cat,” Gillian said quickly. “Stay on lap.”

“Right.” When it could smell ham on his plate?

“See, word box puzzle,” Gillian pointed out to Ross, who had to be wondering how she figured out _any_ of the clues. “Learn much.” She became engrossed in the crossword quickly, frowning over the clues while Blonsky finished eating. After a moment she said a phrase in her native language.

“Onyx,” Blonsky answered. “O-N-Y-X.”

Winston and Ross stared between the two of them as Gillian filled in the boxes. “Did you understand what she said?” Ross asked again.

“No.” How often was he going to have to tell them this?

“Uh, if I may, just for a second,” Ross said politely, taking the newspaper from Gillian. He and Dr. Winston found ‘onyx’ and traced it back to its clue. “’Black stone,’ four letters.” They looked at Blonsky expectantly.

He shrugged. “I really don’t know what words she’s saying,” he insisted, unconcerned with this linguistic mystery that seemed to fascinate them. “I don’t know what the words for ‘black’ or ‘stone’ are. It was just a guess.” Ross and Winston shared a look that made Blonsky uncomfortable.

When he was finally winding down his meal Gillian started cleaning up. “I have dish-wash machine, see?” she pointed out, indicating the appliance Blonsky had installed for her recently.

“Don’t overload it,” he warned. The dishwasher was alright for plates and glasses, but he’d convinced her not to do pots and pans anymore after she’d tried to stuff every washable item in the kitchen in there the first time. And it also meant there were still a few items for him to wash. She also blew out the candle and put the spirits’ food down the garbage disposal, muttering in her native language.

The kitchen cleaned up, they all moved back to the living room. Blonsky sat down on the couch and Gillian curled up beside him; the cat emerged and hopped up onto her lap.

“Good cat! Pretty kitty! F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy is best cat!” she cooed to it. Blonsky was perfectly content to sit back and watch her.

“I see you’ve got another remodeling project going,” Dr. Winston remarked, glancing up at the ceiling. Blonsky had ripped out most of the third bedroom, which sat directly above the living room, so that the room they were in was now open clear to the top of the house.

“Yeah, I’m gonna put a railing at the end of the hall up there,” Blonsky explained, indicating the slightly unusual door now in the middle of the wall above them, “and I’m gonna make what’s left of that bedroom into a storage closet for Gillian’s sewing room.”

“Very nice!” she told them.

“And then,” he went on speculatively, “when the weather gets nicer, I think I’ll do something to the front door. Like maybe a big semi-circle window above it, and tall, narrow windows on either side.”

“Front porch,” Gillian suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed thoughtfully. “I haven’t figured out the height difference yet.” Blonsky had never been much of a do-it-yourselfer—when had he ever had time?—and one wasn’t normally allowed to make changes to the cookie-cutter base housing. But it turned out that remodeling projects were therapeutic for him, a ‘positive outlet’ for his energy—and so he was given leave to transform the house however he liked. He had already added two turret-shaped bay windows to the upstairs, one in the master bathroom holding a whirlpool tub, and one in Gillian’s sewing room, the former second bedroom. They were fairly distinctive in a neighborhood of mass-constructed houses.

The clocks Gillian had set all over the house chimed eight o’clock simultaneously. The effect could be a little overwhelming for guests. Blonsky only minded when one of them got out of synch with the others. Gillian poked at him meaningfully. “Yes, I _know_ ,” he assured her. “This is usually when we start having sex,” he informed Ross and Winston baldly.

“You stay?” Gillian offered hospitably. Blonsky stayed remarkably deadpan.

The two men scrambled to their feet quickly. “Well, we should be going,” Ross announced. “Thank you very much for dinner,” he told Gillian. “It was delicious.”

“Table clean,” she reminded him. “No cat s—t.”

“Er, yes.”

“You write?” she pressed Winston, indicating his notepad. “No cat s—t on table!”

“Oh, I definitely wrote that,” he assured her.

“Okay. Bye-bye, come back.”

“Major.”

“General.” They didn’t shake hands, as Blonsky preferred to avoid physical contact with most people.

Not Gillian, obviously.

At last they were gone. Blonsky locked the door firmly and slumped back on the couch with a sigh. He didn’t feel tired, exactly, but he felt like he’d just gotten home from work and needed to go through his entire relaxation routine again.

“What is ‘having sex’?” Gillian queried curiously.

“It’s another way to say ‘f‑‑‑‑‑g,’” Blonsky explained.

“Oh. Okay. Now?”

“Yes, now,” he agreed, grabbing her hand. He definitely needed to relieve some tension after _this_ particular evening.

**

“So, twenty percent is bad,” Ross surmised, not really looking at the rather thick report Dr. Winston had handed him.

“Most people hit around seventy percent,” the doctor confirmed.

“So twenty percent is _really_ bad,” Ross elaborated with a sigh.

“Of course, we don’t know what his score would’ve been _before_ ,” Winston went on, and Ross gritted his teeth slightly. The researcher was apparently never going to stop reminding the General of the speed with which he’d inducted Blonsky into the Super Soldier program. Well, it had been an _emergency_. He hadn’t had the time to perform two months’ worth of psychological tests first. “But twenty percent definitely indicates a deficiency in his emotion-recognition skills,” Winston went on, “which can have severe effects on his ability to communicate.”

“And his judgment in the field,” Ross assumed.

“Undoubtedly.”

Well, it was hardly a surprise. Not that Ross had really _known_ Blonsky long before he’d given him the Super Soldier serum, but even what little he _did_ know, or had read in reports, had changed over the last few months. He had always been cunning and dangerous; that was why Ross had wanted him. But he’d also been _human_ , with caution, compassion, and a sense of duty. Now all indications were that he had become reckless, callous—and worst of all, motivated by desires less pure and less manageable than a soldier’s obligation. It was only a matter of time before the target in question wasn’t worth the price it would cost to use Blonsky.

And when that day came, Ross had a few contingency plans in mind.

But he intended to put that day off for as long as possible.

“Are you sure he was even trying?” he asked Winston. “Maybe he got bored and was just guessing randomly.”

“I thought about that,” Winston assured him, “and I promised him a reward if he scored at least fifty percent, to motivate him.”

Ross frowned. “What on earth could you have promised that would motivate him?” _His_ emotion-recognition skills were not lacking, and he knew the expression on Winston’s face meant he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have. “ _Doctor_?”

“I promised that he and his wife could take a trip off the base,” the doctor finally admitted.

“Oh, for the love of—“ Ross exclaimed in disbelief. “That is _not_ happening, Doctor!”

“Just a short trip, just a few hours,” Winston tried to explain. “It was the only thing I came up with that he was interested in!”

“You do _not_ make that kind of promise without _my_ permission!” Ross ordered. That day he had planned for would come a whole lot sooner if Blonsky got into trouble at a very public shopping mall or movie theater.

“Of course, General,” Winston replied, which was all very well to say _now_ , after the offer was already _made_. “I can’t really take it back for this time, though.” He sounded slightly questioning.

“No, I guess you can’t,” Ross sighed. Whatever control he _did_ still have over Blonsky resulted from the trust he placed in Ross and those designated to work with him—if that trust were breached, Blonsky could easily cut ties with all of them, go rogue. And Ross couldn’t let that happen.

Winston looked relieved at the agreement, which made Ross’s temper flare again. “But don’t you _ever_ tell him anything like that again without my permission,” Ross repeated sharply, staring Winston down. “Don’t you even promise him a g-----n _candy bar_ without clearing it with me first!”

“Yes, sir,” Winston responded, seemingly suitably chastised. Ross didn’t feel the need to remind him what exactly would happen to _him_ if he disobeyed. There was a moment of silence, then Winston regrouped. “We’re testing him again today, sir, if you’d like to come watch.”

“Is it… interesting?” Ross couldn’t imagine that it was.

“It might be today, sir,” Winston suggested, growing more enthusiastic. “We’re introducing a new element. We’ve asked his wife to come in.”

“His wife?” Ross repeated blankly. Privately he felt Mrs. Blonsky was just as bonkers as her husband—to use the technical term—though likely not as dangerous. If you stayed away from her teeth.

“Well, his stress indicators always decrease when she’s around,” Winston reminded him. “We thought maybe his poor test score was a matter of concentration, and that lowering his stress would help him focus.”

“We can’t send his _wife_ on field missions with him, Doctor,” Ross pointed out stonily.

“True. But, intense physical activity _also_ lowers his stress indicators,” Winston recalled, “as do the training simulations. It’s just a little difficult to give him a pencil-and-paper test when he’s running through the woods at night. So we thought we would start by lowering his stress in another way, to see if it made any difference.”

Sometimes Ross wondered if there really was a point to all this, or if Winston and his colleagues just liked messing with people and making little graphs from the data. Still, he picked up his coat from the back of his chair in preparation to go. “Well, let’s find out.”

**

The Test Room was a small, bare, empty space, with the standard mirror-window down one side, a table and chair, a TV on a wheeled cart, and an ancient computer off to the side. All that was needed to administer the seemingly endless array of exams Dr. Winston came up with—few of which were at all interesting. And most of the time they didn’t even tell Blonsky the results or the right answers, if there were any—wouldn’t want him remembering and ‘cheating’ the next time, he supposed.

He turned aimlessly in the chair, waiting for Winston to come in with the testing materials. Today he was playing for an outing to town with Gillian, although it was a little unfair to dangle a reward like that in front of him, he thought—whatever he was doing or not doing on these tests, he couldn’t really help the answers he gave. It wasn’t like, say, a history exam where he could do better by just studying more. Still, he _was_ sometimes tempted to get it over with faster by just putting down random answers, so maybe they thought the reward would keep him honest.

Finally the door opened, but it wasn’t Winston who walked in—it was Gillian.

“What the f—k are _you_ doing here?” Blonsky asked, standing. “Something wrong?” She didn’t _look_ like she’d fallen into the washer again.

“No! I come see you!” Gillian explained cheerfully. “Doctor _call_ me!” She frowned suddenly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. What the f—k are you drinking?” He had a suspicion that he already knew what was in the obscenely large white-and-yellow cup.

“Yummy-yummy sweet tea McDonald’s!” Gillian informed him with great satisfaction, and a slight sugar high. “Is present for me!”

“That is f‑‑‑‑‑g s—t,” Blonsky told her. “That will kill you.” Or at least make her impossible to live with until it wore off. He deeply regretted introducing her to fast food cuisine on their initial journey to the base.

“No kill. Yummy!” Gillian countered. “You want?” She offered him the cup.

He was tempted to grab it and dump its sticky contents on the floor, which she guessed. She pulled the cup back, though she still waited for his answer. “It would make my head f‑‑‑‑‑g explode,” he muttered, which was a _no, thanks_. Stimulants of all kinds were out these days—he had too much energy as it was. “So Winston called you and wanted you to come here,” he stated, getting back to more important matters. “What the f—k for?”

Gillian shrugged. “I get presents!” she pointed out. “Here, hold please.” She handed Blonsky the drink, which he felt was a far too trusting gesture on her part, and began digging in her enormous purse. “Look, I get _magazines_ that you no let me read,” she told him smugly, displaying the thick yet shallow stack of glossy issues. “ _Cosmopolitan_ ,” she pronounced carefully. “ _Redbook_. Vog-oo-ee.”

“ _Vogue_ ,” he corrected.

“—and _Glamour_ ,” she finished. “See, I learn from.”

“They are also s—t,” Blonsky declared. “Don’t get used to reading them.” He took a sip of the drink in his hand, more out of habit than anything else, and nearly spit it back out onto the floor. “That really _is_ s—t, isn’t it? Is there any f‑‑‑‑‑g tea in there at all? It’s sort of—grass-flavored sugar water.”

“Give back,” Gillian demanded. “Is yummy! So sad no McDonald’s on base.”

“Your teeth wouldn’t survive it,” he predicted. The door opened again and this time it _was_ Dr. Winston, followed by two lackeys toting an overstuffed chair. “What are you giving my wife s--t for?” Blonsky demanded of him.

“Oh, just a little something to keep her entertained while you work,” Winston assured him. “Put the chair right there,” he directed his assistants. They set it down behind the chair at the table. “Now, Mrs. Blonsky, if you would just sit in this chair and read your magazines—“

“I keep?” she asked hopefully.

“Absolutely!” Winston assured her cheerfully. “Just sit right here.”

“Okay!”

“And as for you, Major, if you would just take your usual spot at the table…”

“What’s she here for, then?” Blonsky asked suspiciously.

“I read magazine!” Gillian reminded him.

“She’s just going to sit in the room, _quietly_ , while you take this test,” Winston non-explained. “You just sit here and ignore her.”

“No ignore!” Gillian protested indignantly.

“Shut up. Read your magazine,” Blonsky advised her. “What’s the point?” he asked Winston.

“Just something a little different,” the doctor replied evasively. Blonsky imagined it had something to do with the sacred stress indicators they were always going on about. He knew Gillian lowered them, which was generally seen as a good thing.

“Same deal that we talked about before, right?” he questioned. He didn’t want to say it in front of Gillian, in case she got all excited about leaving the base and he didn’t make the cut. He trusted Winston knew what he meant, though.

“Yes, absolutely,” Winston replied. “I was just talking to the General about it earlier. If you would take a seat…”

Blonsky felt weird sitting with his back towards Gillian. It seemed like she might somehow get into trouble back there.

Winston laid a thick folder on the table. “Now, this is the same kind of test you took the other day. There are fifty pictures of people displaying various emotions, and you just classify them into one of ten categories that are listed on the sheet. You’ll have an hour.”

“Hour?” Gillian piped up from behind them, seemingly concerned. “Where bathroom?”

“Yes, I expect you’ll be going every two minutes with _that_ s—t floating through your body,” Blonsky observed, nodding at the tea.

“It’s right out this door and to the left,” Winston told her more pleasantly. She exited. “We’ll just wait until she comes back to start,” he added to Blonsky. “Do you have any questions?”

“How’d I do on the last one?” Blonsky tried, not really expecting a straight answer.

“Less than fifty percent,” Winston replied blandly, which was of little help. “I’m going to make sure everything is set up properly. I’ll let you know when to start.”

Blonsky waited for Gillian to return, alone and yet watched and monitored by several different methods. He stared at the mirror-window, hoping he was staring directly at someone and freaking them out. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the tabletop, bored and unable to relax under so much scrutiny.

Finally Gillian returned. “Where the f—k have you been?” he asked, turning in his chair to face her.

She seemed slightly flustered. “Sorry, sorry. Bathroom has magic toilets!”

“Magic—oh, s—t, the automatic flush,” Blonsky realized.

“Is strange but, not _bad_ magic,” Gillian decided, settling into her chair.

“Sorry, I forgot all about them.” He hoped there weren’t many witnesses to the scene she no doubt made.

“Is okay.”

“You understand what’s going on now?” he asked her, reluctant to turn away. He felt better talking to her than to anyone else, and he didn’t look forward to starting the test—they were very difficult and frustrating for him, generally, as all the faces seemed to look alike.

“Understand,” Gillian assured him. “I sit, read, you sit, work. Hour.”

“Right. And you have to be quiet.”

She frowned. “What if interest?” she asked, indicating the magazines.

“If you find something interesting, you’ll just have to tell me about it later,” Blonsky pointed out. It would be just like her to interrupt the test because she’d discovered a ‘revolutionary’ new tip for make-up removal or organization. The sex tips he didn’t mind so much, though this wasn’t exactly the proper venue for discussing them. Which reminded him of something else. “Don’t do anything embarrassing, like pick your nose or anything,” he warned her, “because they’re watching through that window there.”

“What window?” Gillian asked in confusion, perhaps not unreasonably.

“That mirror is really a window,” Blonsky tried to explain, unsure if he had opened up a subject that was far too complex for the moment. “Would you turn the lights up for a second so she can see you?” he requested, looking at the mirror.

There was a pause, then the mirror turned into a window looking into a dim room of computers and storage cabinets. Dr. Winston waved patiently.

Gillian’s jaw dropped. “Magic mirror!” she deduced.

“I guess so,” Blonsky agreed.

“I fix,” she decided with determination, pulling a Sharpie from her purse and standing.

Blonsky caught her before she could mark up the mirror with her magic runes. “It’s okay, it’s not, er, _bad_ magic,” he told her. Winston really owed him for this.

“Not bad?” Gillian asked with uncertainty.

“No. They’re just keeping an eye on me,” Blonsky explained. “But they turn the window into a mirror so I won’t be distracted by them.” Close enough, he figured.

“Oh. Okay,” Gillian agreed, sitting back down.

Blonsky waited another beat, to make sure she was settled, then resumed his own seat. “You ready then?”

“Yes, I ready.”

He looked expectantly towards the window that was a mirror again. “ _Go ahead and start_ ,” Winton’s slightly tinny voice ordered.

Gillian made a noise of alarm. “It’s just an intercom,” Blonsky told her quickly. “You know what an intercom is.”

“Oh, right,” she agreed, and he finally felt it was safe to pull out the contents of the folder and begin.

Where did they even find these people, to make faces like this? Blonsky wondered this as he always did, sorting through the photos. Happy, sad, surprised, afraid, disgusted, ashamed—he wouldn’t even know where to begin if someone told him to make those faces. This batch seemed easier than the last one he’d worked with, at least.

He couldn’t entirely forget about Gillian’s presence, though. He didn’t think the addition of her was quite fair, if it distracted him. “Would you shut up?” he snapped about twenty minutes in. “I’m trying to concentrate here.” In response she cheekily rattled the magazine she was holding even louder. He turned around all the way. “I’m gonna put this pencil through your f‑‑‑‑‑g eye,” he threatened. “I can do it from this distance.” Gillian made a face that indicated her utter disdain for this posturing—he had no trouble reading _that_ expression—and Blonsky turned back around in disgust. What _really_ wasn’t fair was people who survived by being too _stupid_ to know they were in danger.

Forty-five minutes in. “Hey,” Blonsky announced to the room at large. “I’m done.”

“ _Are you sure, Major?_ ” Winston asked. “ _You still have fifteen minutes_.”

“I’ve been through them all twice,” Blonsky shrugged. “I’m not gonna change anything.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Winston agreed. “ _I guess we’re done_.”

Blonsky nodded and began to shove the photos back into the folder. “We done?” Gillian asked hopefully. He indicated yes and she popped out of her chair. “Okay. I go bathroom.” He snorted as she left the room quickly—served her right for slurping down that McDonald’s garbage.

Dr. Winston entered the room moments after Gillian exited—with a new folder in his hands. “Would you mind doing these additional ten?” he asked politely, scooping up the original folder. “Just go ahead.”

“Sure,” Blonsky agreed dryly, taking the new photos. Like he really had much choice in the matter—his orders were to cooperate with Winston and all the other researchers. It wasn’t exactly the career he had pictured for himself when he joined the Royal Army… but then again, when he was allowed to hunt, there was no better feeling in the world. He was still trying to decide if it was worth it.

This group was a lot harder, he realized. He wrote ‘anger’ on the last line, more as an expression of his own feelings than anything else, and tossed aside his pencil in disgust. “ _All done?_ ” Winston asked blandly from the other room.

“Yes,” Blonsky told him in irritation. “These f‑‑‑‑‑g things are impossible.” He glanced at the clock and realized that ten minutes of his life had passed working on them, ten minutes he wasn’t going to get back—and also that Gillian hadn’t reappeared. “Where the f—k is my wife?” he asked of Winston when he came to collect the papers.

“Oh, she’s just out in the hall,” the doctor answered, suspiciously knowledgeable. “Here she comes.”

Gillian burst into the room and threw her arms around Blonsky while Winston ducked out. “They not let in!” she complained in despair. “They keep out!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her, patting her back. “They just like to play their little mind games. Are we all done then?” he asked more loudly.

“ _Yes, all done. Thank you, Major, you can go_.”

Great. He was free to go back to his office and ‘work.’ In front of another mirror-window. Gillian tugged him closer to the chair she’d been sitting in so she could pick up her things without letting go of his hand. He found himself equally dissatisfied at the idea of her returning home shortly.

“You want to come sit in my office for a while, read your magazines?” he offered flatly, as though he didn’t really care what her answer was. Well, he _didn’t_ want her there if she _didn’t_ want to be there, anyway. “I have a couch. And, my own bathroom,” he lured.

Gillian seemed thrilled by the invitation. “Okay!” She reached up and straightened his not-crooked tie slightly. “You have couch?” she asked with interest.

He almost smirked. “I also have magic mirror,” he pointed out, dampening her hopes. She looked duly disappointed. And now that she’d gotten him thinking in that direction, he was disappointed, too. “We could probably go home for lunch, though.”

“Okay!” she agreed brightly.

**

“So how’d he do?” Ross pressed curiously, looking at the photos Winston had laid out on the desk. It was really kind of creepy, seeing all those faces frozen in such unsubtle expressions.

“Fifty-two percent,” Winston calculated, truly pleased by the confirmation of his stress theory. “We’ve been working on a way to test him while he’s running on the treadmill. We’ll have to try that next.”

“No, _next_ you’re going to be thinking about how to manage him in _town_ ,” Ross reminded him pointedly. “I agreed he could go, but there was no mention of _when_ —and neither one of them is leaving this base until I see an airtight plan for how they’re going to spend every minute in public, and what you’re going to do if he starts to have a meltdown.”

Winston sighed and nodded. Well, it would be an interesting challenge, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

“Morning, Gillian!” Patty called over the fence that separated their properties.

“Patty-Patty!” Gillian exclaimed with her usual enthusiasm, jumping up from where she’d been digging in the yard. “How you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Patty replied. There was something a little off about her tone, but she pressed on quickly before Gillian could ask about it. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I plant daffodils,” Gillian told her. There was a strip of dirt overturned in the middle of the yard and a pile of bulbs sitting nearby.

“Isn’t it, well, a little early to be planting daffodil bulbs?” Patty asked in confusion. “I thought you were supposed to plant them in the fall.”

“Well, had to move from back of house,” Gillian explained, indicating the disturbed earth near the back door. “So must plant now. Emil make kitchen bigger!” she added excitedly.

“Oh, wow,” Patty replied in surprise. “He’s enlarging the kitchen? That’s nice! That’s what he’s going to work on this summer?”

Gillian nodded. “Very nice! But,” she went on more seriously, “how is you? You no fine.”

Patty smiled a bit sadly. Gillian might be a touch eccentric—okay, maybe more than a touch—but she was a good friend. “Oh, it’s just that John is going away on a trip soon,” she shrugged, trying not to make a big deal of it. Army wives were supposed to be prepared for this, and anyway she was lucky he was just going to ‘somewhere in Europe’ for two weeks and not to Afghanistan for _months_.

“Oh, so sad,” Gillian sympathized. “You want F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy? Keep no lonely. Oh wait,” she remembered, “you have _dog_.” She tried very hard not to sound contemptuous of the creature. “Dog keep no lonely?”

“Oh, well, I’m sure Daisy will help,” Patty told her. “But—my sister is coming out to stay with me.”

Gillian’s eyes widened. “You no say you have _sister_!”

Patty nodded. “Yes, she’s coming to spend her summer vacation here. In beautiful, exotic South Dakota,” she added with a laugh. “Her name is _Penny_.” She thought Gillian would enjoy that.

And she did. “Penny-Penny and Patty-Patty!”

“If we’d had a third sister my mom would’ve called her Polly,” Patty revealed, “but instead it’s my brother, Paul.”

“Patty Penny Paul, Patty Penny Paul,” Gillian repeated, liking the rhythm. “So fun! I cook dinner Penny-Penny,” she offered. “Emil grill.”

“Oh sure, that’d be great,” Patty agreed. “We’ll have you guys over, too, some time.” Although Major Blonsky did not exactly make the best dinner guest.

**

“Patty Penny Paul, Patty Penny Paul,” Gillian chanted under her breath as she cleaned up from dinner that night.

“What the f—k are you mumbling over there?” Blonsky asked from the sink where he was washing a cooking pan.

“Patty Penny Paul,” Gillian repeated more loudly, which told him nothing. “Patty-Patty next door,” she clarified at his look. “Sister Penny, brother Paul.”

“Oh,” he responded, understanding now but not terribly interested.

“Penny come stay while Carter gone,” Gillian went on. “Patty Penny Paul.”

“How darling,” he said dryly. He was quiet for a long moment. “Hmm, I have a sister.” He sounded as though he had only just remembered.

Gillian turned to look at him. “You have sister? I no know.” He shrugged as though he couldn’t think of anything more to say on the subject. “What name?”

“Natasha, actually,” he told her. He hadn’t pronounced it in a long time—not due to any particular animosity, just… the separations of time and space had crept up on them.

“Where?”

“Um, she’s probably still in London,” he tried to recall. “She’s a librarian, at Oxford.”

“Like Miss Lori?” Gillian asked with enthusiasm. The base library was one of her favorite places.

Blonsky smirked. “Slightly more books, I’d imagine.”

Gillian sighed. “So lucky!”

**

“No, this place is really nice,” Penny insisted, trying to sound sincere. “I was expecting, I don’t know, concrete barracks or something.”

“Yeah, not quite _that_ bad,” Patty replied. “It’s definitely nicer now that John is a lieutenant. Although, South Dakota isn’t exactly the most exciting place to be stationed.”

Penny was peering out the back window with interest. “I don’t know, it sounds like your neighbors are plenty exciting,” she commented, recalling her sister’s emails and phone calls on the subject. “That’s them over here, right?” she asked, indicating the Blonsky house with its pair of turrets in back. “Very fancy!”

“Yes, the Major has special permission to renovate his house,” Patty reminded her from the other room. “Gillian says he’s enlarging the kitchen for her this summer.”

“Oh, that must be Gillian in the yard now,” Penny remarked, bobbing to see better around the slats of the blinds. “She’s lying out, getting a tan, I guess.” Penny squinted and looked closer, then smirked. “In the nude, I think.”

This drew Patty in to look as well. “Oh, yes,” she agreed, in a matter-of-fact tone. “She does that sometimes. I think she kind of feels that no one can see her if she’s in her own yard.”

Penny wasn’t especially offended by the behavior—she lived in Florida, where people did their grocery shopping in bikinis—but she was surprised it was allowed in the more conservative community. “Doesn’t anyone complain?”

“Not that I know of,” Patty shrugged. “Gillian’s kind of a… nature worshipper. And she’s very sweet. She doesn’t mean anything bad by it.”

“Does her husband follow suit?” Penny asked cheekily, searching the yard for any other nude bodies of more interest to her.

“No, not really,” Patty told her. Her single, flirty sister always had men on the brain—not more than was wise, though—but Patty had never thought of Gillian’s husband in terms of _attractiveness_. He was just too… odd for that. A different animal. “Let’s go out and say hi,” she suggested. “Now just remember, though, that English isn’t her first language.”

“I work with a lot of people like that every day,” Penny reminded her overprotective older sister. “Don’t worry, I won’t make fun of her or anything.”

Patty gave plenty of warning as they stepped out the back door. “Gillian!” she called from clear across the yard, waving her arm. “Hi, Gillian!”

Gillian looked up from the magazine she was reading and waved back enthusiastically. Without embarrassment she stood up and pulled on a little dark blue robe that just barely counted as clothing.

“This is my sister, Penny, that I told you about,” Patty introduced when they all reached the fence.

“Patty Penny Paul!” Gillian recited enthusiastically. “Where from?”

“I’m living in Kissimmee, Florida, right now,” Penny answered politely.

Gillian’s eyes widened. “Ooh, Penny in Kissimmee!” she repeated with delight. “You allergic cats?”

“Uh, no,” Penny replied, slightly surprised by the swerve in conversation.

“Good, good,” Gillian pronounced. “We have pretty kitty, F‑‑‑‑‑g Fluffy.”

Penny remembered the cat’s name from her sister’s stories and did not overreact to it. “How nice. I wish I could have a pet, but my apartment complex doesn’t—“

The roar of a power tool cut her off and they all looked over at the back of Gillian’s house, where Major Blonsky had appeared to continue working on the large hole in the wall. “That Emil,” Gillian revealed proudly. “He make kitchen bigger. Then, sunroom. Then, deck.”

“Wow.” Both Patty and Penny were impressed with the remodeling plans. “Sounds like that will take a while!” Penny added. “Does he have people who help him?”

“No, Emil do all self,” Gillian assured them. “Summer project. Have sunroom for winter. You come for dinner sometime?” she asked Penny. “Maybe I cook Patty-Patty kitchen, though. Kitchen dusty now.”

“Sure, that would be—“

The power tool made a strange sound, followed by a very, “F—K!!” The whirring of the motor died, leaving unnatural silence behind. “F—k f—k f—k!”

“Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good,” Patty worried, trying to see Major Blonsky inside the house.

“You okay, Emil?” Gillian asked towards the house.

“Hey, Gillian!” Blonsky called back. “You want to see what the inside of a finger looks like?” He emerged from the hole in the house with a dishtowel wrapped around his hand.

“Oh no!” Patty exclaimed when she saw the blood seeping through the cloth. “Do you need a ride to the hospital, Major?”

Blonsky approached the group with a casual pace. “Oh,” he finally said, when a normal person might have said, “Hello.” Or “Owwww!” considering the circumstances.

“Penny-Penny, Patty-Patty sister,” Gillian introduced.

“Right,” Blonsky agreed. “Are you allergic to cats?”

“Already ask,” Gillian assured him. “She no.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

The two sisters were more concerned with the unignorable injury, however. “Do you need some help? What happened?”

“Oh, I cut my finger off with the chainsaw,” Blonsky shrugged. He dismissed the gasps that met this statement. “It’ll probably grow back or something.”

“Poor Emil,” sympathized Gillian. “You want tea?”

“Are you _joking_?” demanded Penny. If so, she wasn’t sure it was in the best of taste. But she could imagine this was the sort of gag bored military types in South Dakota played on visitors.

But Blonsky just looked at her blankly. “No,” he responded. “I don’t really care for jokes.”

“I’m gonna get the car,” Patty stated. “I’ll drive you two to the hospital.”

“Well, alright I guess,” Blonsky agreed, as though irritated at the inconvenience this had made in his day. “You better put some clothes on, then,” he told Gillian, looking her over. “And grab some more towels on your way out, I’m bleeding through these.”

Patty hurried off to her garage and Gillian hurried off to her bedroom, leaving Blonsky and Penny awkwardly at the fence. Blonsky wasn’t good at small talk, period, and Penny couldn’t really concentrate with the bloody dishtowel between them.

“So… you here long?” Blonsky managed to ask.

“Couple weeks,” Penny answered, wondering how she could get away to ‘help’ her sister with the car.

“Ah. And you’re from…?”

“Florida.” They both nodded.

“It’s, um… not so wet here,” Blonsky offered. Then he finally thought of something longer to say. “We got to leave the base a while ago, just for a few hours, and Gillian said she wanted to see the ocean. It turned out, she thought we’d been living in South Carolina this whole time, not South Dakota. That’s a f----r, huh?”

“Maybe we should go get in the car now,” Penny suggested, seeing her sister pull into the Blonskys’ driveway.

“Oh, alright.” He made a mental note to tell Dr. Winston about his attempt at small talk. That would no doubt please the man.

**

“How’s that anesthetic holding up?” the doctor asked. “Are you sure you don’t want a little more?”

“No, I’m alright,” Blonsky replied flatly, watching his finger being sewed back on with some interest. Apparently they weren’t going to find out if it would’ve grown back.

“There, you safe now,” Gillian declared, having finished drawing runes on Blonsky’s arms and neck with her ever-present Sharpie.

“ _Now_? Thanks,” he told her sarcastically. “A lot of f‑‑‑‑‑g good they did before.” The house and his body already had select runes permanently inscribed in strategic locations, at Gillian’s insistence.

“Well you no dead,” she pointed out. “Only finger, not head.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I go bathroom,” she decided, a bit apologetically.

“Now?” he asked in annoyance. “Well, alright, hurry up.” He supposed there hadn’t been much time when they were rushing out of the house earlier—but being stuck in the hospital while someone sewed your finger back on was pretty much a textbook example of a stressful situation. And Blonsky really didn’t like to find himself in those.

“You new here?” he asked the doctor, who looked suspiciously young and fresh.

“First week,” the man replied carefully, making another stitch.

“You’re supposed to put a heart monitor on me whenever I come in,” Blonsky informed him.

The doctor looked up and frowned. “Do you have a heart condition?” he asked in confusion.

“Something like that.”

“You _do_ feel kind of warm,” the doctor observed worriedly, touching Blonsky’s arm farther up. “Does that hurt?” he asked, when Blonsky flinched away. “Maybe you should lie down while I finish this.”

“You’re supposed to put a temperature monitor on me, too,” Blonsky told him, working harder to form the words. He tried to focus on breathing in and out, like Winston had taught him. “Did someone call General Ross?”

“General Ross?” the doctor repeated, becoming more alarmed now. “Why would—Nurse! Some help here.”

Well, Blonsky had said all he was going to say. Now he had to concentrate on staying calm and not giving in to his rising instinct to smash everything around him and run for it. What good would that do, he asked himself, closing his eyes. He was injured, he needed medical attention. He wasn’t an animal to crawl into a cave and lick his wounds in the dark. Was he? The dark quiet of a cave seemed somewhat appealing right now, compared to the noisy, overly bright hospital.

He heard someone calling his name but ignored it. His body grew tenser and tenser as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to hold himself in check. His finger really hurt, by the way. It was a pain that he could box up and tuck away, for the most part, but the more chaotic his thoughts became, the more the box rattled and shook, the pain a live thing that wanted to come out and be acknowledged.

“Don’t touch him!” he dimly heard, as though from a great distance. Except the injured hand, he had decided that was okay, he reminded himself. Was that the General’s voice?

“Heart monitor… temp monitor… collect all contaminated material… hazmat team to Blonsky’s house…” With one vial of Banner’s blood that mad university researcher had created a whole bank of serums and potions that the government was still sorting out—apparently there were now some very scary lab mice on the same subterranean level where Banner was kept. The General wasn’t going to let one bit of bloody gauze from Blonsky out of his sight. And there was a nice spattering of blood on the kitchen floor, that was for sure. What if the cat got into it? That was all they needed, a housecat who turned into a tiger when it wasn’t fed on time.

“Seizures… ?” he heard the doctor ask, and Blonsky knew how strange he must look to the man, how weak even, like he was about to pass out or lapse into a fit. But Blonsky didn’t care about that. He cared about being in control. If he couldn’t master the beast inside him he would end up like Banner, strapped on a gurney in a windowless room miles underground. But everything was so hot, fighting so hard, so loud and dizzy—

And then a cool wave washed over him, calming his mind and his body. He could stay inside it forever, inside some kind of temperate blue pool in his mind, and never come out. Eventually though—had it been hours, or just seconds?—he felt like he could afford to give the real world some attention, and he opened his eyes.

Gillian sat on the table next to him, cradling his head against her shoulder. He was right, General Ross _had_ arrived, along with a whole crowd of personnel. Blonsky didn’t know if he had actually generated jobs for all of them or if they were just gawkers.

“Are you finished yet?” he asked the doctor rudely, not leaving Gillian’s embrace. “I haven’t got all day, you know.”

Ross rolled his eyes and gestured for the doctor to continue his work. The steady beeps in the background told Blonsky the monitors had finally been put on him. “Hi, General,” Gillian greeted. “Emil cut off finger with chainsaw!”

“So I hear,” Ross replied, obviously displeased.

“But kitchen very nice,” she promised. “All done soon!”

“And then a sunroom,” Blonsky went on conversationally, “and a deck.”

“Sunroom before winter,” Gillian agreed.

“Maybe we should get someone out there to help you, Major,” Ross suggested.

The heart monitor beeps flickered in response. That was one thing Blonsky didn’t like about the machine, it let people practically read your mind. He straightened up on the table but kept Gillian close. “No, thanks, sir,” he replied. “I prefer to work alone.” The last thing he needed was another person _watching_ him. “Better my finger than someone else’s head.”

“No head bad,” Gillian agreed. “You be fix soon?”

“All done!” the doctor announced, just in time. Blonsky predicted the man was going to be having a little chat with the General quite soon, about ‘special’ procedures. “Keep the area clean and dry, and come back next week so I can check on it.”

Blonsky hopped down from the table. “How about tomorrow, then?” he countered.

“Well, I don’t think it will have—“ Ross gave him a look. “Sure, I can take a look at it tomorrow,” he agreed.

“Well alright, let’s go,” Blonsky decided, as Gillian pulled the monitors off him. “Ow,” he said, as the sticky patch yanked on some skin.

“Be more careful, Major,” Ross advised him.

“Yes, sir.”

“You want flowers?” Gillian asked cordially. “Maybe toy chainsaw?” Ever since the incident with the sliding door and the toy dog, she’d had it in her head that a proper gift for injuries was a representation of what had done the injuring.

“Let’s skip that this time,” he muttered, pulling her down the hallway. He was eager to get home and see what damage the hazmat team had done. Well, what damage _could_ you do, really, when there was already a giant hole in the wall?

“Emil must be more careful,” Gillian said suddenly, stopping to throw her arms around him. “No lose fingers!”

“I didn’t lose any,” he reminded her. “Anyway, I know what _you_ care about,” he added cheekily. “I know what _you_ like my fingers for.”


End file.
